The Right Number
by kyaticlikestea
Summary: When Stiles Stilinski's phone gets switched at the gym, he really just wants it back. The last thing he's expecting is to fall hopelessly in lust with the guy who's got his phone. So, of course, that's exactly what happens.
1. Chapter 1

For as long as he can remember, the background image on Stiles' cellphone has been an old photograph of his mother. He's always loved that picture. His dad took it when they were just turning twenty, highschool sweethearts navigating college together, and she's smiling, bright and easy, turning to face the camera with a look of complete adoration in her sea-green eyes.

It's not visible in the photo, but there must be a slight swell to her belly, concealed by a green summer dress. It's Stiles' photographic debut, and he hasn't looked as photogenic since.

Stiles loves that photograph, likes looking at it every time he checks his messages or his e-mails, which is why he immediately notices that this isn't his phone.

"Well, shit," he says aloud, startling a passing teenage girl. He gestures an apology before furrowing his brow and inspecting the Blackberry in his hand.

It's definitely not his. For a start, the background is just a stupid picture of some fucking woods. Whoever's phone this is must be the most boring person ever to have come kicking and screaming into this world. Who honestly chooses to have a picture of foliage as the default image on their cellphone? Even herbologists probably choose photographs of their friends or family, drunk pictures taken on nights out or photos of sticky children with grass-stained knees. Not trees.

He turns the phone over. It's almost completely unscratched, which is a stark contrast to Stiles' own phone. A deadly combination of gangly limbs that he never quite grew into and a tendency to flail when excited – which is always – has led to Stiles' phone becoming more battle-scarred than an extra in one of those World War films his dad likes to watch on Sunday afternoons.

He groans. How did he manage to switch his phone with someone else? For a start, that means someone else made the unforgivable mistake of buying a Blackberry. He immediately feels some sort of kinship with his phonemate. They have both suffered at the hands of a phone that refuses to cooperate 80% of the time – although admittedly, the other person probably has the raw end of the deal here, considering Stiles' Blackberry has been through a laundry cycle and a rainstorm and coincidentally is no longer in possession of a working 'g' key.

He's contemplating the relative excellence of this phone when he remembers that he's supposed to be meeting Lydia like five minutes ago. She's going to murder him.

He breaks into a sprint.

* * *

He arrives at the café nearly ten minutes late, wheezing and sweating unattractively. Lydia is sat at their usual table with a cup of coffee. She looks, as always, perfectly put together. Stiles feels more than slightly self-aware. He breathes in in an attempt to pull himself together and plops himself down in the chair opposite Lydia. Upon meeting his eye, she raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow and her lips pucker slightly. She's not best pleased.

"You're late, Stilinski," she says. Stiles groans.

"Dude, don't even," he sighs. It still feels weird calling Lydia 'dude'. It's taken five years of unreciprocated love, several lengthy conversations and four boyfriends (on her part) to get to this stage, but it's worth it, Stiles thinks. They work well as friends.

Lydia frowns.

"Did something happen?" she asks, concerned. Stiles shakes his head.

"Nothing major," he assures her. "But also the single worst thing in the world."

He digs around in his jeans pocket and pulls out the phone, placing it on the table in front of Lydia. She takes one look at it and her eyes widen in surprise.

"That's not your phone," she says. Stiles blinks.

"How did you know?"

She shoots him a mildly withering glare.

"Please," she says. "Your phone looks like it's been eaten, digested and excreted. This one has clearly been taken care of."

Stiles can't argue with this. He sighs again.

"I need my phone," he says. "How else can I tease Scott about Allison every few minutes? How am I supposed to send Jackson pictures of butts when I know he's in class? I can't live like this, Lydia. Not in a first world country."

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"Sorry if the complete cessation of my life is inconvenient to you," mutters Stiles. He leans forward and rests his head on the table. He just wants an easy life. "The worst thing is that I don't even know whose phone it is. There's no pictures on it or anything. Unless he's a forest, that is, in which case I think I should probably wash my hands before preparing food."

"You never prepare food," Lydia points out. "And that's a Blackberry, right?"

Stiles nods, although he's aware that, given his current position, it's probably imperceptible.

"You can totally find out who this belongs to, Stiles," Lydia sighs. Stiles looks up. This is news to him. Lydia is holding the phone now, and Stiles is suddenly very worried that she's going to do something completely insane, like try and contact someone on speed dial.

"Don't do that!" he hisses, scrambling to get the phone back. Lydia holds it out of his reach, reflexes as annoyingly fast as ever, and raises an eyebrow. Stiles groans. "I don't want to talk to one of Tree Guy's friends. I was figuring on just ringing my phone from this one, then arranging to meet up and swap our phones back. I mean, he must have mine if I have his, right?"

"One would assume so." Lydia looks at the phone again, her perfect features arranged in a way that Stiles knows means she's thinking as hard as she can. Suddenly, her eyes light up. "I've got it," she says. "This thing is connected to Facebook, right?"

Stiles groans.

"I am _not_ looking through someone else's Facebook, Lydia!" he says. "That's creepy. Borderline illegal, probably."

Lydia sighs.

"I'll do it, then."

Stiles is powerless to stop her. He probably couldn't even physically overpower her, not that he'd want to. Lydia has been the cause of too many bruises on Stiles' body after drunken nights out, and not in the way he used to hope for. He decides to leave her to it and order a coffee. He's only had eight cups today and he's starting to get the shakes. He offers her one last disapproving look and stands up to join the queue at the counter.

By the time he's returned with the largest espresso he can legally buy, Lydia is sitting with the phone on the table in front of her, her hands in her lap and the smuggest shit-eating grin that Stiles has ever seen on anyone who isn't Jackson.

"What?" he questions carefully, putting the coffee on the table and sitting down.

Lydia beams.

"This phone belongs to a Mister Derek Hale," she says. "And he's a regulation hottie."

She pushes the phone towards Stiles with her index finger, and he picks it up, squinting at the screen. He can make out the Facebook profile of someone called Derek Hale. He feels more than a little sullied by this. He's never been one for Facebook stalking. Even when Scott broke up with Allison for a week in senior year, Stiles flatly refused to help him trawl through her Facebook information in search of any clues as to why the relationship wasn't working.

Well, fuck it. Lydia says this guy is a hottie. Stiles isn't one to judge before he has all the relevant data. He's a scientist.

He looks a little more closely at the screen.

He can see that Derek's profile picture is a photograph of two people, a man and a woman. It looks like it was taken at a restaurant. The woman is grinning at the camera, her arm around the shoulders of the man, who looks like he'd rather be in the seventh circle of Hell than here, wherever it is.

Lydia was right, though. He's ridiculously good-looking in the way that mere mortals never really are, with cheekbones that could probably cut glass and artfully mussed black hair and eyes that can see right into Stiles' goddamn soul. He seems to suffer from the same defect of most insanely hot people, however, in that his personality appears to be lacking. His expression, Stiles, thinks, could best be described as 'surly', and worst described as 'downright pissed off'.

Stiles swallows.

"He has a girlfriend," he says. Lydia shakes her head.

"He's listed as single," she counters. "I'm betting that's his sister."

Stiles looks at her strangely.

"You should not have memorised this dude's entire Facebook profile, you know. That's... yeah. That's weird."

Lydia shrugs.

"There's precious little eye candy around here," she says. "And you had the fortune of running into this guy!"

Stiles narrows his eyes. He doesn't want to know what's in that sweetener Lydia puts in her coffee.

"I've never met him before in my life," he tells her. Lydia blinks at him, clearly waiting for him to make some sort of connection. When he fails to do so, she groans and rubs the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

"Stiles," she says slowly, like she's talking to a problem child. "You switched phones. You must have run into him _somewhere._"

Oh. That would make sense. Stiles flushes.

"Well, I don't remember him," he mumbles. "And, y'know, you'd think I would."

Lydia smirks.

"Do you know where your paths might have crossed?" she asks. Stiles folds his arms and nods.

"I was at the gym with Scott this morning," he answers. "I took my phone out in the changing room to arrange to meet you. I guess it got switched then, while I was naked and defenceless."

"He's not a criminal, Stiles," Lydia retorts. "He's an innocent victim in this, just like you. He's probably just as pissed as you are."

"I am not pissed!" cries Stiles. "That is a baseless accusation with no basis in fact."

"Regardless," sighs Lydia, raising her hands in mock surrender. "You were in a room with this guy – who was probably naked at the time – and you _didn't notice him_? Seriously?"

Stiles shakes his head mournfully. Lydia exhales loudly.

"What kind of bisexual male _are_ you?" she asks in wonder. Stiles shrugs.

"I wasn't looking," he says, feeling his ears turn red. Lydia raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't!"

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Look," protests Stiles. "I think, if I had been looking, I would have noticed this fucking demi-god in a glorious state of unclothedness. Now, stop looking at me like I'm some sort of experiment gone wrong and help me draft a coherent text to send to this dude that says 'I'm classy, available and really need my phone back'."

Lydia sighs like she's the most put-upon human being on Earth, but takes the Blackberry and types something before handing it back to Stiles.

"'Hi. I was at the gym earlier and I think we must have got our phones mixed up in the changing room. We should meet up over coffee and swap them back'," reads Stiles. He raises his eyebrows warningly. "Really? That does not say 'classy and available'. That says 'I put out on a first date because my father never taught me better'."

Lydia shrugs.

"It'll get the job done."

Stiles deletes what she's written and writes his own version. Slight infatuation aside, he really does need his phone back.

_Hey, sorry, this is going to be really annoying, but I think we switched phones at the gym earlier? Do you want to arrange a time we can switch them back?_  
**[Sent 16:06]**

Lydia pokes her tongue out.

"You're no fun," she says.

"Give me business over hot, sweaty pleasure any day," responds Stiles.

"Bullshit," says Lydia, but she drops the subject.

* * *

He almost forgets that he's waiting for a text until he's alone in his apartment later that evening, poring over a Psychology textbook whilst attempting to cook a rudimentary stir fry. Multitasking has never really been his strong point. He can barely solotask. He's valiantly trying to mop up a rather messy soy sauce spillage when he feels the phone vibrate in his pocket. It's an unusual feeling – he always sets his phone to silent. Vibrate is just _annoying_ – and it makes him jump, sending another burst of soy sauce spreading over the kitchen counter. He curses under his breath, puts down the bottle and the teatowel, and takes out the phone.

_I think you're right. Unfortunately, I left town almost straight after the gym and won't be back until next week. If you feel you can cope until then, we can wait until then to exchange phones. Otherwise, I can post it back to you. I will, of course, borrow a friend's phone in the meantime._  
**[Received 18:34]**

Well. Turns out that Tree Guy – Derek, Stiles reminds himself – is possibly a robot. That would explain the oddly perfect appearance. He's probably a government experiment gone horribly right.

Stiles taps out a reply.

_Ouch. Bad timing on my part, then. It's cool, I'm on contract so you can use that phone if you've memorised the numbers you need. Thanks for trusting me not to change all your Facebook information, by the way._  
**[Sent 18:38]**

It takes Stiles until after he's pressed the 'send' button to realise that he might as well just have announced 'hey, I'm a creeper, I stalked your entire Facebook profile and I haven't been locked up in Pilgram yet!'.

Stiles kind of hates his life. He actually thinks that 'life' might be pushing it a bit.

_Thank you. I'm on contract as well, so you can do the same. You looked at my Facebook?_  
**[Received 18:44]**

Shit.

_Oh, no. I mean, not really. I just wanted to see if I could work out who the phone belonged to, you know. Put a name to the face. Not that I had a face, because I didn't remember you at all. I didn't look at anything, is what I'm trying to say. I wouldn't do that, man. That's not right._  
**[Sent 18:47]**

_Good. I'll be in touch about meeting to swap the phones back. Thank you again, Stiles Stilinski._  
**[Received 18:55]**

Son of a bitch.

* * *

The next day is a total pain in Stiles' ass. He's five minutes late for his first class – _five goddamn minutes_ – and the lecturer basically hands him his ass on a plate, garnished with white wine and broken dreams. His favourite lunch place is shut for refurbishments and he ends up buying a soggy tuna sub from the college canteen, which he attempts to eat in vain. It turns out that he did the wrong assignment questions and is forced to sneak out of his third class before someone asks him to answer a question that might as well be in Greek.

He wants to call Lydia, but he has no idea what her number is. He doesn't really have many options. He could call someone called Laura, or some dude named Peter, but that's about it. Derek's contacts list is surprisingly short.

_Hope your day is progressing better than mine. Not that that's hard. My day is going so slowly that I might sign it up for remedial classes._  
**[Sent 15:32]**

He doesn't really expect a reply. Derek's probably got a really busy, fulfilling life. Heck, he's probably a model on the catwalks of Milan, or an artist with a weekend apartment in Paris and a beret. He could be a pornstar for all Stiles knows.

He doesn't need that image in his head. Not while he's in the library, anyway. Maybe later, although he knows he'll feel guilty about it after he's finished.

_It's Tuesday. Do Tuesdays ever go well?_  
**[Received 15:41]**

Stiles blinks, looks at the screen once more and blinks again. He types out a response, fingers flying over the keys. He's actually conversing with the hottest guy this side of the equator, albeit through the medium of a Blackberry.

_I suppose not. It's Thursdays I really hate, though. Never got the hang of them._  
**[Sent 15:42]**

He waits fifteen minutes for a reply before resigning himself to a lonely life of spinsterhood and cats and dying alone and being eaten by budgies.

He really, really hates his life.

* * *

_Freud was a motherfucker. Not literally. Although, y'know, reading his theories, I'm starting to wonder.  
_**[Sent 16:22]**

_Aren't you a college student? Why aren't you at class?_  
**[Received 16:31]**

_Yeah, I am. That's slightly creepy. I don't have classes all day. It's college, not penitentiary school._  
**[Sent 16:35]**

_That makes sense._  
**[Received 16:41]**

Stiles doesn't know what that means. He doesn't know how to respond to a flat statement, but he doesn't want to end the conversation.

"Come on, Derek, throw me a bone here," he mutters, then flushes at the double meaning because he's secretly twelve and female.

He sighs. Derek's not going to add anything, and he has no way of replying. Accepting defeat, he puts the phone down on the chair next to him and crosses his legs like a child in the reading corner, focusing once more on Freud's theory of wish fulfillment.

_Is that your girlfriend in your background picture?_  
**[Received 17:05]**

Stiles is thrown by the fact that Derek has texted him without a prompt. He doesn't know what to make of this.

It's a pity text. Derek can obviously sense Stiles' fratboy longing and is merely humouring him until he can give him his phone back and ignore him forever.

Stiles shouldn't fall for it.

He totally falls for it.

_Dude, no. Gross. My mom._  
**[Sent 17:07]**

_She looks very young._  
**[Received 17:17]**

_Well, yeah. She was. Is. Idk. She died like two years after that picture was taken, so yeah. Pretty young._  
**[Sent 17:17]**

_Sorry._  
**[Received 17:39**]

_It's cool. You weren't to know._  
**[Sent 17:41]**

_No. I'm still sorry, though._  
**[Received 17:51]**

_My mother died when I was sixteen._  
**[Received 17:55]**

_Dude, that blows. I'm sorry, too._  
**[Sent 17:57]**

_It's OK. At least I have memories of her. You don't. I'm lucky in comparison._  
**[Received 18:05]**

_You call me 'dude' a lot._  
**[Received 18:11]**

_Dude, I call EVERYONE 'dude' a lot. It's like my thing._  
**[Sent 18:15]**

_Thanks._  
**[Sent 18:20]**

He doesn't expect a reply. He doesn't want one, either. He's just spilled his guts to some random dude he's never met – admittedly a ludicrously hot one, but a stranger nonetheless – and the last time he saw his mother she looked like a ghost, her hospital gown a white reminder of mortality.

Freud can suck a fat one. Stiles is going to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wakes up at 10am the next morning for a 9am class, his sheets imprinting a pattern on his cheek and his hair standing up on end like he's been electrocuted.

"Fuck," he says, and then remembers that he's meant to be meeting Scott for lunch and he looks like crap and has no way of telling Scott that he'll probably be late because his phone is currently in the possession of some chiselled demi-god with a body carved by angels. "Fuck," he says again. It's sort of satisfying. It almost helps. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck."

He sighs, rubs his bleary eyes with the heels of his palms, and picks up his borrowed phone, frowning when he sees that there are two texts waiting. The first one is from his phone and must have come through last night, after he went to bed and lay awake for seven hours. He opens that message first.

_Don't mention it._ _  
_**[Received 19:41]**

Huh. It's a pretty congenial text, all things considered. He's starting to wonder if Derek really is as aloof as he'd assumed. He thinks back to their conversation last night, when Derek had seemed completely willing to listen – well, read – and offer his own story in return. It's kind of awesome for him to do that, Stiles thinks, considering they haven't properly met, and Stiles can't get some of his actual real life friends to talk to him about his mother most days.

It's still odd, he thinks, how much he actually enjoys texting Derek. Even though they've only been doing it for a couple of days, Stiles has carved a little nook in his life for the sarcastic messages, looks forward to them and enjoys reading them, coming up with replies that will hopefully make Derek feel the same way.

He picks up the phone and types out a message. He wonders if it'll ever be Derek who sends the first text and sparks a proper conversation that doesn't take a nosedive into depression and dead parents.

_Unemployed, huh? The lack of an alarm on your phone caused me to miss my first class. I'm considering taking legal action. My people will be in touch._ **_  
_****[Sent 10:13]**

He knows from experience that Derek will take eons to reply, if he actually does, so he puts the phone back on his bedside cabinet and yawns, stretching out his body until he hears at least three vertebrae crack. Still aching, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, scratching an annoying itch in the small of his back and yawning again. He has no idea why he feels so rough. He's not hungover, hasn't been since the last time he got drunk and tried to kiss Lydia – really, he should have known better – and ended up with concussion, and that was nearly three months ago. He staggers into the bathroom, splashes some cold water onto his face and inspects himself in the mirror. He sighs. If he goes outside within the hour, he'll probably get arrested. He'll scare small children. He'll turn nubile young men into stone.

He takes his time in the shower, reasoning that he's already missed his morning classes and might as well show up to his afternoon ones looking like he's at least half human. He almost feels like he's earnt his place amongst the living when he walks back into his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and sees that he's got a text. He's a little worried by how his stomach flips over with excitement at this, but decides that it's far too early in the morning to confront that.

_Not unemployed. I use an alarm clock. And I think your failure to go to bed at a reasonable time caused you to miss that class. Perhaps you should sue yourself?_ **_  
_****[Received 10:21]**

_Employed, then. I bet you're a comedian._ **_  
_****[Sent 10:55]**

He waits ten minutes for a reply, towelling his hair and rooting around in his closet for something to wear, before giving up and going downstairs to make himself a coffee and some bacon.

* * *

For a change, it isn't Stiles who's late. Scott shows up ten minutes behind schedule, red-faced and out of breath.

"Sorry, man," he says apologetically, taking the seat opposite Stiles, who's taken the liberty of ordering him a really milky latte as punishment, just the way Scott hates it. However, because he's a good friend, he's also bought him lunch. "Shit hit the fan with Allison and her dad last night. She stayed over, and... well. You know."

"I wish I didn't." Stiles wrinkles his nose in disgust and picks up his sandwich. "And if you think you're going to finish that story, by the way, you can go right up to the cashier and order yourself a steaming hot cup of _nope_."

Scott grins.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says airily, which is a total lie because Stiles knows more about Scott's sex life than he does his own. Not that that's hard, because it's hard to know that much about something that doesn't exist, but Stiles digresses. He raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Scott stirs his disgustingly milky coffee. "How's life?"

"I missed my first class," Stiles tells him around a mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich. Scott frowns.

"I know, dude," he says. "You put it as your Facebook status this morning."

Stiles blinks.

"I really, really didn't," he says. He swallows a mouthful of cheese and anxiety and extends his arm, his hand in front of Scott. "Show me."

Scott eyes him worriedly, like he's worried Stiles might suddenly produce a knife and start stabbing him. Eyes still on Stiles, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, handing it wordlessly to his friend. Stiles grabs it and immediately goes to check Facebook.

"Be careful," Scott mutters. "It's new."

Stiles ignores him. He has more important things to worry about, like why the hell Scott seems to be on drugs. He taps his finger on the touchscreen phone – because Scott was intelligent for once in his life and didn't fall for the Blackberry shtick – and selects his Facebook profile, waits for it to load.

"I think you're tripping major balls, man," Stiles tells him. "There's nothing on my Facebook, you..."

Except there is. Stiles blinks.

**Stiles Stilinski **_Missed my morning class. What an idiot. I should do what Derek does, and get a proper alarm._

"What," says Stiles, and then reads it again. "Derek," he states, flatly.

Scott takes a bite of his panini, because Scott is the kind of terrible person who actually eats paninis, and looks pensive.

"Yeah, I was gonna ask about that," he says, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "Who the hell is Derek?"

Stiles hands Scott his phone back and takes Derek's phone out of his pocket.

"The General of the enemy army," he grits out. "Because this is war, Scott. This is Sparta. He may have won the first battle, but - "

"That's not your phone," Scott points out helpfully. Stiles throws his arms into the air in defeat.

"How can you all tell?" he cries. "My phone is not in _that_ bad condition."

"Yeah, but it kind of is," Scott counters. "Anyway. Whose phone is that?"

Stiles sighs.

"Derek's," he answers. "And it's kind of a long story."

He taps out a text message and hits send.

_Oh, it is ON. You will come to rue the day you took on Admiral Stilinski on his home turf. I once fraped someone so bad she started crying and had to stay off school for two weeks. Admittedly, that was because I made a spelling mistake, but my point still stands. Prepare to be annihilated, because this is going NUCLEAR, Derek Hale.  
_**[Sent 12:31]**

"You have that look on your face," says Scott, worriedly. Stiles doesn't look up, just loads Facebook onto the Blackberry. How can he get Derek back? Something about forests, he thinks. Tree Guy and his forest fetish. Or is that too crass, too obvious? Probably, but then Derek's was a pretty low blow.

**Derek Hale** _Thank the heavenly stars above that I set my big-boy alarm for 8am this morning! Managed to get a good three hours of frolicking in the forests before work. Stiles should take my advice; frolicking is awesome. And manly._

Stiles sniggers to himself. He's hilarious. He then realises that he never responded to Scott's statement, and looks up. Scott has raised one eyebrow and is sort of smirking. That look never means good things, in Stiles' experience.

"What look?" he asks.

"That look you used to get when you teased Lydia in Biology class," Scott responds. _That_ makes Stiles look up.

"Derek is _not_ Lydia!" he protests. "Dude, I had a crush on Lydia. This Derek guy? I've never met him, and he's an ass. And yeah, he has all the cheekbones and the eyes and probably the biceps and he abs and shit, but he's still a douche, and I still need to make him cry."

Scott looks at him, a slightly terrified expression on his face.

"OK," he says, eventually. He sighs, checks the time on his phone. "I've gotta go, man. My next class starts in an hour and I haven't even looked at the assignment. I'm basically screwed."

"Allison will be devastated to hear of your affair with procrastination," Stiles retorts. He looks at Scott's plate. "Are you going to finish that sandwich?"

Scott rolls his eyes.

"It's a panini, Stiles," he replies. "And no. Go to town on it."

Stiles does. He hasn't eaten in about ten minutes and he's starting to get hunger pains.

"You're gross," Scott tells him, matter-of-factly. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your unresolved sexual tension with Derek, whoever he is."

"There is no unresolved sexual tension!" Stiles retorts, spraying crumbs everywhere in his indignation. "There is, perhaps, an undertone of thinly veiled tolerance, but that's about it."

Scott raises his eyebrows, and Stiles decides to focus on his sandwich, which he cannot call a panini for ethical reasons. The sandwich makes more sense than Scott.

"You have a text, by the way," Scott tells him, standing up and swinging his rucksack over one shoulder. Most people have stopped using rucksacks by now. Not Scott. "That light's been flashing since you got here. Man, I hate that about Blackberries."

Scott leaves, giving him some weird sort of salute that he probably thinks makes him look really cool but just reminds Stiles of The Village People. Stiles makes a mental note to change Scott's ringtone next time he sees him, then thinks about what Scott had actually said and frowns. He didn't hear the phone vibrate.

Then he remembers this morning. There were two texts. He'd only checked one. He's an actual idiot. He wonders who it's from. Obviously, it'll be a text for Derek. He feels kind of grotesquely voyeuristic when he realises just how much he wants to read it. It's none of his business.

So, of course, he opens it. It's from someone called Laura, which makes Stiles' heart sink.

**_From Laura:_**  
_Whoever has my brother's phone, thank you. You've given this family more entertainment in one day than we've had in ten years.  
_**[Received 09:11]**

It's his sister, then. Stiles remembers when he had first shown the phone to Lydia and she'd stalked his Facebook. She'd thought that the woman in Derek's profile picture was his sister. Stiles looks at the phone, thoughtfully. They really don't look that much alike. At first glance, there are obvious similarities; they both have dark hair and eyes, and they're both really attractive. Stiles curses genetics. Some people have it so easy. On second glance, however, they're worlds apart. Laura smiles brightly and easily like she's used to it, like she's never really without a grin of some kind. Derek can barely manage to turn the corners of his lips in anything that resembles a smile of any sort.

Stiles is pretty sure genetics aren't to blame for that. He wonders what is.

_**To Laura:**__  
Absolutely no problemo. Well, a bit problemo, because this is ruining my life, but hey, if I'm giving some joy to even one person out there, then it's totally worth it._  
**[Sent 12:49]**

Stiles bites his lip, thoughtfully. It's a little weird to think of Derek as an actual person rather than just sardonic characters on a Blackberry screen. Derek has family, friends and a Facebook. Well, maybe not friends. But he has a job and an awesome sister and a whole life that Stiles knows nothing about.

It kind of scares him how much he wants to find out about it.

He looks at the time. His next class starts in twenty minutes, and he's fifteen minutes from campus.

"Scheisse," he hisses, and he crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and makes a run for it.

* * *

Stiles' next class is surprisingly tolerable. He snaps a picture of the professor's butt and sends it to Jackson, wondering why Jackson's number is the only one he's committed to memory, before realising that Jackson will now be receiving a photograph of a stranger's ass from an unrecognised phone number. The thought makes him break into hysterics, causing the girl next to him to spill her coffee all over his notes on Erik Erikson (which, at this point, consist only of 'Erik Erikson's parents were douchebags and gave him the worst name in history').

Still, despite the third degree burns he's probably developing on his nether regions, it's totally worth it.

He's on his way out of the lecture room when he feels Derek's phone vibrate in his trouser pocket, making him squirm and inadvertently gyrate against some poor dude who shoots Stiles a look of abject terror before fleeing. Stiles ignores the fact that he's probably going to be known as a sex offender from now on and pulls out the phone.

_Frolicking? That's very cute. Everyone on your Facebook agrees, too.  
_**[Received 14:45]**

Stiles gulps, and checks his Facebook.

**Stiles Stilinski **_Hit 'like' on this status if you think I'm adorable!_  
9 people like this

He's sort of tempted to murder Derek as well as those nine douchebags, but he can't ignore the fact that he pinks when he realises that Derek Hale has called him adorable, albeit in a cruel and mocking way.

_You think I'm adorable? Aw, that's sweet. Especially coming from someone who's so vain that he brags about his workout routine on Facebook.  
_**[Sent 14:51]**

**Derek Hale **_Phew, what a day. Only managed 800 one-fingered push-ups, but did find the time for 1600 squat thrusts in between admiring my cheekbones in the mirror, so I'll count it as a success.  
_14 people like this

_I don't have time to do all of that. I'm too busy having a job. I was saddened to see that your recent application for employment was rejected, by the way. My commiserations.  
_**[Received 15:15]**

**Stiles Stilinski **_I just got turned down for a job as a comedian. Apparently, you have to actually be funny.  
_15 people like this

_Yeah, it really sucked. Especially as your employment is going so well, man. I'm happy for you.  
_**[Sent 15:20]**

**Derek Hale **_Finally got offered my first GQ cover! At long last, all this pouting, posing and body sculpting has yielded the glamorous results I've always wanted! See you stateside, bitches!  
_23 people like this

By the time Stiles has reached his apartment, he can't stop himself from grinning like the cat that got the cream and then found out there was an entire fucking gateau underneath it. It's somewhat alarming to see that Derek actually has a pretty wicked sense of humour. He hadn't been expecting it. Seriously, it's not actually fair. The guy is handsome as fuck and all muscular and witty and –

"Fuck," says Stiles, the epiphany hitting him like a ton of bricks square in the chest. "I'm screwed."

And he is. He really, really is. He has a crush on a guy he's never even met, and it's a guy who's totally out of his league. He doesn't even know anything about Derek, not really. He doesn't know where he works or what his middle name is or how his mother died or how old he is. Fuck, he could be thirty for all Stiles knows, although he looks pretty good for it if that's the case.

He wonders what Scott would say if he knew. He'd probably encourage it, like the fucking optimist he is, because he just wants Stiles to be happy. He'd set Stiles up with Hannibal Lecter if he thought it would make him smile because Scott has Allison and _everyone_ should have an Allison.

Lydia, of course, will tease him as soon as she finds out, which she will. Lydia finds out everything. She's like TMZ in human form.

She'll probably tell Derek. Fuck. She must never know.

Stiles wonders if it's too late to brick up his door and windows and become a hermit, or join a priesthood on some island somewhere. He seriously considers it before coming to the decision that he just wouldn't suit the hairstyle.

He wonders what he should do. The sensible part of his brain is telling him to call Lydia from the landline, invite her over and watch The Notebook while stuffing their faces with trifle, but Stiles has never been one to listen to the rational part of his consciousness, so he does the most stupid thing he can think of.

He phones Laura.

He doesn't even really know why he does it. There are a couple of reasons, really. Firstly, even though she's only sent one text, Stiles can tell that Laura is exactly the kind of person he gets on with really well. She's funny, forward and hot. Stiles kind of wants to be her best friend.

Secondly, he thinks it might make all this seem just that little bit more ridiculous and impossible if he can bring Derek into the real world, into the space that Stiles inhabits along with Scott and Allison and Lydia and Jackson, and away from this goddamn pedestal that Stiles has put him on.

Laura answers on the third ring, and Stiles immediately regrets his decision. His mouth dries up. He wonders if a drink of self-hatred and tears would soothe it.

"Hello?" she says, and wow, OK. She's a real human with a real voice and she sounds really pleased about something. Stiles wonders what it is.

"Um," he says, and then realises that conversations usually work best when both parties are capable of forming coherent words and sentences and he clears his throat. "Hi."

"Is this the guy who has Derek's phone?" she asks, slowly. Stiles coughs.

"Yes, yes it is," he answers. "Hi."

"Hi, Stiles," she says, and Stiles can tell that she's smiling. "What can I do for you?"

Stiles sighs.

"I don't know," he replies, honestly. He really doesn't. "I think I just wanted to be sure that I hadn't somehow managed to accidentally steal the phone of a serial killer, that's all."

"Well, Stiles, this isn't my phone," she tells him. "And my brother has bad days."

Stiles barks out a laugh. He can see where Derek gets his sense of humour from. Or does she get it from him? Stiles adds it to the list of technically inappropriate things he wants to discover about a hot stranger, and presses on.

"Well, as long as I don't fit his usual victim profile, I think it'll be OK," he says. He hears Laura pause, and when she speaks again, it sounds thoughtful.

"I think you might fit," she says.

Stiles hangs up, because he's an idiot, and because Laura Hale is quite clearly insane. Perhaps not as insane as Stiles, who's falling hard and fast for words on a screen, but still certified bat-shit crazy.

He feels the phone vibrate in his hand, and his heart churns. It's Derek.

_Truce?  
_**[Received 15:59]**

His brain cycles through the things he could reply with. _Stop texting me because I think I'm a bit in love with you and you make me want to stand on a bench and feed birds and sing about love and shit. No, not a truce, because this is the best part of my day and you might not want to text me if we're not jokingly at each other's throats. How are you a real dude and will you please date the shit out of me?_

None of them seem wholly appropriate. There's only one acceptable response, really.

_Truce.  
_**[Sent 16:01]**

Stiles puts the phone down on the end table by his front door. He feels a little empty.

There's only one thing that helps at a time like this; Happy Hour. Sighing, he makes his way over to the landline and calls Lydia.

If he can't confront his feelings, he can be damn sure he'll obliterate them into non-existence with copious helpings of vodka.

Because that always helps, except for when it doesn't, and Stiles is screwed.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles wakes up the next morning feeling even worse than he felt yesterday. That's the first thing he notices, that someone has apparently carpeted the inside of his mouth and hammered nails into his brain. He aches everywhere. Even his toes are waving proverbial white flags. He groans and forces his eyes open, the bright light of the early afternoon searing his retinas and making him want to retch. He can't remember the last time he was this hungover. How much did he drink last night? He has a vague recollection of ordering tequila shots for everybody at the bar and drinking more than half of them. Images of table-dancing and drunken professions of love flash through his admittedly slow mind, making him want to curl into a ball of shame and regret and just end it all.

He should know better. His dad goes to AA meetings every other week and Stiles should know better.

Next to him, Erica moans in discomfort. Stiles starts. When did he let her into his apartment?

That's the second thing Stiles notices. He's not in his flat at all. For a start, he's lying in a rather plush double bed, not his creaky, rickety single. There isn't a ketchup stain on the ceiling above his pillow from where he ill-advisedly attempted to make hotdogs in bed during a particularly bad hangover. There are no shirtless posters of Ryan Gosling.

He sits up and looks at the almost sleeping form next to him. It's a small consolation that Erica looks nearly as bad as he feels, bleary-eyed and scruffy-haired. It's a much larger consolation that they're both still fully clothed. As awesome as Erica is – and she _is_ awesome – she's pretty much the last person Stiles wants to have a drunken one night stand with. After Scott, maybe. And wow, Stiles does _not_ need that image in his head so soon after waking up.

Stiles wants answers and he wants them now. Why is he here and why does he feel like he's died and been resurrected by the world's worst sorcerer?

"Morning," he croaks, his lips dry and his throat sore. Erica struggles to squint at him through sleep-deprived eyes.

"Afternoon," she corrects.

Stiles blinks, and even that's a struggle.

"Is it?" he asks. Erica nods, then rubs her neck as though the action has caused her great physical pain. It probably has.

Stiles sighs. He had four classes this morning. He's starting to think he might have to kiss goodbye to his extra credits.

"I think this calls for coffee," he says. Erica manages a very small smile, and Stiles heaves himself into a standing position. As soon as he's sure he's not going to keel over from the effort of walking, he tentatively places one foot in front of the other and begins the journey to the kitchen.

* * *

It turns out that Erica is a lot more talkative once she's had three cups of black coffee in quick succession. She's always been more similar to Stiles than either has cared to admit, he thinks. Their conversation flows easily now, the caffeine loosening their joints and their tongues.

Stiles bites the bullet. He needs to know what went down last night. He has a few vague memories that he did something awful, something that makes him shudder a little with embarrassment, but he can't for the life of him remember what that deed is.

"Erica," he says. She sips her coffee again and looks at him expectantly. "What exactly did I do last night?"

Erica thinks for a moment, then starts laughing, almost dropping her coffee all over her bedsheets. Stiles is not exactly reassured by this.

"Wow, Stiles," she eventually manages to say. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Like all good stories - and this sounds like a good story, albeit with me as the antagonist rather than the handsome and charming protagonist - at the beginning."

Erica shifts slightly, rearranging her legs so that she's kneeling opposite Stiles, and takes his hands in hers. Stiles swallows hard.

"Stiles," she says. "Does the name 'Derek' mean anything to you?"

Stiles can feel his face flushing red. He doesn't understand why he always manages to make such an idiot of himself. Jackson actually _is_ a tit, and he manages to hide it under a layer of calm, collected haughtiness. Why can't Stiles do the same?

He clears his throat, wondering if he might be lucky enough to choke to death on his own saliva within the next three seconds.

"He's just a guy I've been texting," he mumbles. "Our phones got swapped, that's all."

Erica laughs, and shakes her head.

"Oh, Stiles, honey," she says, her voice falsely and sickly saccharine. "That is _not_ all. That's not even close to being all."

"Oh God," Stiles whimpers. "What did I _do_?" he adds, in a despairing whisper.

Erica pats him on the shoulder.

"Stiles," she says. "As much as I love seeing you freak the fuck out most of the time, you have to promise me that you'll cut yourself some slack. You were very drunk. I think you drank more in one night than anyone else ever has in their life. I was seriously considering pumping your stomach myself with a vacuum cleaner at one point. So don't be too hard on yourself, all right?"

Stiles nods dumbly, a knot forming in his stomach. He's not looking forward to the awkward revelation that's surely coming. Erica sighs.

"You phoned him," she states, and Stiles wonders why he was born. He groans.

"I didn't," he denies. "Please, Erica, tell me this is some kind of awful joke. Please."

"It's not a joke."

"Unlike my life!" Stiles cries. He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts.

Maybe he didn't say anything too bad. Heck, maybe Derek didn't even answer. That wouldn't be out of character, from what Stiles knows of the guy. He doesn't exactly seem like Miss Congeniality, after all. Which is a good thing, because Stiles has always been a little bit scared of Sandra Bullock.

He sighs.

"What did I say?" he asks. Erica raises an eyebrow, and takes another sip of her coffee.

"I don't actually know," she confesses. "You were pretty clear that it was going to be a private conversation. You attempted to push me out of my own house, but that obviously wasn't going to fly with me, so you hid in a bush."

"In a bush?"

"Yeah. It was pathetic, actually."

Erica's smiling. Stiles isn't.

"Your face is pathetic," he mumbles. Erica raises an eyebrow.

"I think we both know that's not true, Stiles," she says. She inspects a spot of dirt under her fingernail. "I actually know Derek, you know."

Stiles balks. That can't be true. No-one knows Derek. He is an enigma wrapped in a riddle and tied with a bow of secrets. He belongs in Stiles' world. He exists on a separate plane from everyone else. He's a higher being. He's practically a god.

Erica is looking at him strangely and expectantly, and Stiles realises that he hasn't actually reacted yet. He clears his throat.

"What?"

"Yeah," Erica continues. "We both grew up in the next town. I had the biggest crush on him while I was growing up."

This is new information. Stiles almost forgets that he's probably made Derek terrified of him, and presses Erica for more.

"Why didn't you ever, y'know, get on that?" he asks, aiming for casual but aware he's probably coming off as some sort of really incompetent police interrogator. Luckily for him, Erica doesn't seem to notice. She offers him a withering glance.

"I liked the dude, Stiles, but not enough to grow a dick for him."

Stiles' eyes widen. This is unexpected.

"What, he's gay?" he questions. Erica shrugs.

"Well, he only dates men. There was a woman, once, but none since. Kate Argent." Erica says the name in much the same way that most people would say 'haemorrhoids' or 'genital warts', and Stiles' curiosity is naturally peaked. He's always been a sucker for gossip. It's a character flaw.

"And she was bad enough to turn him off women for life?" Stiles lets out a whistle. "What, did she have some horrible skin condition down below? A third nipple? Hair where there shouldn't - "

"She nearly tore his entire family apart," Erica cuts in, and Stiles wonders why he's bothering majoring in Psychology when he clearly has such a promising career already lined up for him as a professional douchebag.

"Shit," exhales Stiles. "What did she do?"

Erica narrows her eyes, scrutinising Stiles, and Stiles shivers a little. Erica has one of those glares that feels like it could pierce flesh and bone. Well, it's Erica. It probably can.

"You seem awfully interested, considering you're essentially a stranger to the guy," she says, warily. Stiles raises his hands, feigning innocence.

"Just concerned about a fellow bro," he assures her. Erica raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact he looks like a Greek god mated with Brad Pitt before his marriage to Angelina Jolie destroyed all his self esteem, would it?" she asks.

Stiles buckles.

"Oh my God, he does," he groans. He puts his head in his hands. "Erica, I'm screwed. I'm actually screwed. Just take me out and leave me to die. Please. It would be less painful."

Erica laughs, shoving his shoulder companionably. It's probably Stiles' favourite thing about her; the more she likes someone, the more comfortable she is expressing herself through the medium of physical violence. He's sure she'll make a special sort of person very happy some day.

"I'm not going to kill you, Stiles," she says. Her mouth quirks into an approximation on a grin, which on Erica is really more of a megalomaniacal leer, and she pats him on the shoulder again. "But Derek might. You should probably apologise, ask what you said to him, and hope you didn't ask to bear his children."

Which, if Stiles is honest, is totally something he'd do. He nods sagely and takes out Derek's phone from under the pillow. Stiles has always slept with his phone under the pillow. He can't honestly say why. Taking a deep breath, he types out a text that betrays as little of his regret and self-pity as he can possibly muster, and hits send.

_Hey. This is a bit awkward, but did I phone you last night?  
_**[Sent 14:33]**

Erica watches him send the text, an amused smile on her face. Stiles catches her eye, and she laughs.

"Good luck, lover boy," she says.

Stiles thinks he'll need it.

* * *

Derek doesn't reply until later that evening. Stiles is watching TV at Scott's with Allison, Lydia and Jackson, fulfilling his usual role as third wheel extraordinaire, and he's contemplating throwing himself out of a window. It's not that he doesn't love his friends, because he does – well, with the possible exception of Jackson, who is currently bemoaning the fact that he keeps receiving random pictures of butts from an unknown number – he just thinks he'd appreciate feeling a bit more included sometimes. Most of the time, it feels a bit like he's being punished for not being able to find someone willing to date him. Sitting between the curled up units of Scott-and-Allison and Jackson-and-Lydia, he feels oddly alone in a group.

He feels his phone vibrate against his leg and his heart lurches. This is crunch time. He's going to find out what he said to Derek, and he's probably not going to like it.

He must look panicked, because Scott scrunches his face up in concern.

"You OK?" he asks.

Stiles grins widely and falsely.

"Never better!" he answers. "Just got a text, that's all."

"I bet it's not a picture of a butt," Jackson grumbles, and Lydia elbows him, offering Stiles a conspiratorial glance.

OK, so Stiles doesn't feel _so _alone.

He takes the phone out of his pocket and opens the text.

_Yes.  
_**[Received 19:02]**

That's it. A simple response to the affirmative.

It doesn't fill Stiles with much hope.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Allison asks, picking up the TV remote and turning the volume down a little. Stiles sort of regrets that now he'll probably never hear Maury call Tisha out on her affair with Anthony, but he gets over it.

"I'm so sure that it hurts," he responds. Allison narrows her eyes, but Stiles ignores her. He's not in the mood for emotional blackmail at the moment.

_Did I say anything? I'm really sorry if I did. I was drunk. Like, really drunk. So drunk I apparently tried to start line-dancing with a fencepost. I didn't mean anything I said, so don't worry if I, y'know, said I voted Romney in the election, because I totally didn't.  
_**[Sent 19:04]**

"You look constipated," observes Scott. Stiles loves his best friend sometimes. Now is not one of those times.

"I had a healthy movement this morning," he retorts, fighting fire with fire and causing Jackson to wrinkle his nose in disgust. "And, as previously mentioned, I am fine. There is nothing slightly traumatising going on in my life right now. Nothing at all."

Lydia sighs.

"If you don't tell them, I will," she says. Stiles shoots her a panicked look and she raises her eyebrows. "I was there last night, Stiles," she continues. "You phoned Derek and now you're worried that you confessed your love for him or something equally embarrassing. It would be funny if it weren't so nauseatingly Jennifer Aniston of you."

"Who's Derek?" asks Jackson. No-one answers.

Stiles sighs.

"Look," he says, purposely not looking at Allison's look of complete confusion. "I don't love the guy, all right? I haven't even met him. I admit that he's hot – come on, I have a functioning optical system – but I haven't planned out our wedding or our children's names or anything. Well, one is definitely going to be called Miranda, but that's after my mother and not exclusive - "

"Dude," says Scott, and Stiles can see that he looks a little fed up.

"Just ask him what you said and move on so we can find out who father of this chick's baby is," Jackson orders, gesturing at the TV screen. Stiles sticks his tongue out, and Allison puts her head in her hands. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here.

Stiles knows that feeling.

He waves the phone.

"What do you think I just did?" he sighs. "Dude's not answering."

"You have a text, actually," Lydia points out.

Stiles definitely does not squeak.

Scott sighs theatrically.

_It's nothing. You just rambled on about college. That's all. I hope the hangover wasn't too bad.  
_**[Received 19:09]**

Stiles can actually feel himself become lighter with relief. It must show on his face, because Lydia laughs.

"All clear?" she asks.

"In remission, at least," Stiles affirms, earning himself a disgusted look from Jackson.

"It's like you're living in a romantic comedy," sighs Scott, resignedly.

Stiles scoffs.

"Except it's about as funny as a re-run of the last season of Scrubs, and there's no romance involved," he counters.

_Dude, that movie was terrible. I'm glad I didn't make too much of a fool of myself. I tend to do that when I'm drunk.  
_**[Sent 19:10]**

"No romance, eh?" smiles Lydia. Stiles hates her.

He excuses himself to make a cup of coffee, completely forgetting to switch the kettle on.

_You did make a fool of yourself. You told me that 'bald people are just people with lonely heads' and that you thought 'the police station is too grand for people who wear a lot of blue', and you hung up on me saying 'I have to go, everything I say makes me think of mint'.  
_**[Received 19:13]**

_I think that's the longest text you've ever sent me, you know.  
_**[Sent 19:14]**

_And it consists entirely of dumb things you've said. Says a lot.  
_**[Received 19:17]**

_Unlike you, Mr Less-is-more.  
_**[Sent 19:18]**

_Less is more. You talk too much. I'm back in town in three days, by the way.  
_**[Received 19:21]**

If Stiles is honest with himself, which he's trying to be ever since he decided to actually keep his New Years' Resolutions, his heart sinks a little at that.

Derek's back soon. That means that they can switch phones, and while Stiles is admittedly looking forward to getting his crappy old Blackberry back, he knows that there's precious little chance of Derek keeping in touch with him after that. After they have no real need to be civil to each other, they'll certainly cease all contact.

Stiles enjoys texting Derek. He likes the sarcastic replies he receives, the fact that Derek always takes ages to reply. And while he'll enjoy being able to text his other friends again, it doesn't make his pulse rise to open messages from them the way it does with Derek.

He swallows a lump in his throat along with his feelings.

_Cool, cool. We can meet up. Exchange phones, you know.  
_**[Sent 19:23]**

He decides that he needs that coffee after all. He doesn't bother with the milk.

_Yes. We could get coffee, if you want. It'll be on Thursday, if that's all right?  
_**[Received 19:25]**

Stiles sighs. Coming from anyone else, that would totally be a date, but from Derek, it's little more than a business transaction, and not even in the deliciously seedy way.

_Sounds good to me. Don't worry, I'm not one of those pretentious 'I only drink tea and the blood of old English poets' types.  
_**[Sent 19:26]**

_That's a relief. The coffee shop I was thinking of doesn't serve that. Would 12pm be OK?  
_**[Received 19:29]**

_Yeah, that's the early side of acceptable. I'll probably still be stumbling around like a zombie from lack of sleep at that point, so the caffeine would be welcome.  
_**[Sent 19:30]**

_OK. See you then.  
_**[Received 19:32]**

The formality of the last text makes Stiles want to cry, and he chastises himself for expecting anything else.

"Stiles, hurry up with that coffee!" Lydia calls from the other room, and Stiles pushes to the back of his mind all thoughts of the fact that he's inevitably going to end up dying alone in an old people's home and eaten by ants.

_I lveo yoouo hahaahah i bet yu knew that thou didndt yo becuae i bet eberuone loves you anad yur cheekbneos butt Derek you area cooler than cucucmber and hoettre than my dads secretery and seh had a a boobj ob lasts years so that s hsaying somethng! im drunk ok bryyeee!_  
**[Sent yesterday 01:04]  
[Deleted today 12:06]**


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles reads the text for the third time, hoping it will make more sense if he can just stare it into submission. It doesn't.

**_From Laura:_**  
_We need to talk. My brother just told me he's coming home in three days. He's cutting his trip short, and I'm betting you're the reason. Call me as soon as you get this, and don't even think about pretending you didn't get it. Derek pulls that trick all the time.  
_**[Received 09:11]**

He leans back in the library chair and rubs his face, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for the baffling text he's just spent the past five minutes re-reading. He's not an idiot, he's usually pretty good at reading between the lines and picking out subtext, but in this instance, he's pretty much stumped. There's only one possible reading of that text, and it doesn't make any sense.

Sighing, he presses the _Call_ button. He can't deny that he feels a little Ted Bundy-esque phoning the sister of some hot dude he's never met, but she _did _ask him to.

Laura picks up on the second ring.

"Does the name Kate Argent mean anything to you?" she asks, without even so much as a 'hello' by way of greeting. Stiles rubs his nose between his thumb and forefinger, remembering what Erica told him. He remembers the look of disdain that had clouded her features as she said the name, forced it from her tongue like it tasted bitter, and he begins to dread the direction this conversation is going to take.

"Yeah. Some woman Derek dated in the past, right?" he answers, tentatively.

"I think 'woman' would be putting it generously," Laura says. "When discussing Kate Argent, words like 'bitch', 'life-ruiner' and 'Lucifer's right-hand woman' tend to be thrown around pretty liberally."

Stiles doesn't really see why she's telling him this.

"Sounds unpleasant," he says, finally. "But I think you might've skipped ahead a few steps, because I'm lost. What does this have to do with me?"

He hears Laura huff in exasperation.

"Listen, Stiles, because I'm only going to tell you this once," she says, and Stiles prepares himself. "Kate Argent was fucked up. She did some stuff that I'm not going to go into, because it's none of my business, but it really messed Derek up. It's been a few years, but I'd be lying if I said he was over it."

"And that sucks big time, but - "

"He's flirting with you, Stiles." She sounds a little tired now. "I know that it probably doesn't seem that way, but trust me, he is. And I don't think he's so much as looked at someone else since Kate. Not seriously, anyway. If he's making as big a deal of this as I think he is – which he is, by the way, because I know my brother – then this isn't just going to go away once you both have your phones back."

Stiles takes a moment to process this. As far as he's concerned, there are two options here. Either Laura is even crazier than he'd ever expected, or his not-so-little unreciprocated crush might not, in fact, be unreciprocated at all. Not even slightly.

The thought terrifies him a little, if he's honest. It's always been easier for Stiles to deal with the intangible, the impossible. Things that can't happen can't hurt.

He swallows and wets his lips to speak.

"OK," he manages to say, eventually. "Um. Thanks, I guess. For the heads up."

"Any time," says Laura, and he thinks he can hear a smile in her voice that, frankly, shouldn't be there. Not when everything in Stiles' life just got ten times more complicated than it has any right to be.

"What do you think I should do?" he asks her, because he's a glutton for punishment and can't make his own decisions.

Laura sighs.

"If you don't mean it, then back out now," she says, warningly. "Because he can't take another Kate, Stiles. He can't."

"Thanks for letting me know," says Stiles as neutrally as he possibly can, and hangs up.

He puts the phone down on the table and picks up his Psychology textbook, managing to read three pages before he realises that he's been thinking about what Laura said the entire time and can't even remember which psychologist he's supposed to be reading about.

* * *

_My sister just told me that she phoned you. Sorry if she said anything untoward. She's in a bit of an odd mood._  
**[Received 11:12]**

_She didn't._  
**[Sent 11:15]**

_Good. She always thinks she's doing the right thing, but that's not always the case._  
**[Received 11:20]**

_She didn't say anything._  
**[Sent 11:23]**

_OK. I won't start sabotaging her bedroom yet, then._  
**[Received 11:30]**

Stiles looks at the phone, reads the text and tosses it back down onto the sofa.

Here's the thing. If Derek likes Stiles – and hey, that's a pleasant if unexpected development in the saga that is Stiles' life – then it won't last. It never does. Stiles has a wicked sense of humour, a heart of bronze if not quite gold and better abs than most people think, courtesy of a free weekend gym pass, but he's still Stiles Stilinski, the guy whose mouth seems to have a mind of its own and who never really grew into his limbs. He's good enough, he knows that, but sometimes it's not enough to be enough.

And the thing is, the other person always _thinks_ it's enough, at least at first. It always starts so promisingly. Stiles never goes into things with the intent of getting his heart broken, but that's how it always ends up. He remembers his first real break-up, the week he spent on his dad's couch eating Doritos and watching re-runs of Medical Detectives until Scott showed up and dragged him against his will to a club, where he drank his feelings and threw them all up the next morning. He's been through it three times since, and that's enough for him for a lifetime. He doesn't want to go through it all again; the perfect beginning, the hopeful middle and the bitter end.

So, as far as he can see, he only has one way out of this. It doesn't make him feel like any less of an asshole, knowing that he doesn't have any alternative, but it makes it a little easier to stop replying completely.

* * *

_There's a guy who looks a little like you on Breaking Bad tonight. I think he's a drug dealer._  
**[Received 16:34]**

_I'm in a forest._  
**[Received 18:19]**

_I wasn't really in a forest. I just thought you might get a kick out of that, what with my hilarious phone background._  
**[Received 20:11]**

_I bet you're not in class._  
**[Received 09:59]**

_If you've lost my phone, Stiles, I will not be best pleased._  
**[Received 12:43]**

_You started this, you know._  
**[Received 15:16]**

_I'm back in town tomorrow. We can meet up and get this over with. 12pm at the Starbucks nearest the gym?_  
**[Received 17:55]**

_OK._  
**[Sent 18:01]**

_OK. See you then._  
**[Received 18:13]**

* * *

**_From Laura_**  
_Wow, way to be an asshole about things, Stiles. I didn't think you'd actually do it. If he doesn't kill you when he sees you later, I will._  
**[Received 10:21] **

* * *

"What are you reading?" asks Scott, around a mouthful of breakfast burrito. Allison eyes him, a disgusted and yet somehow fond look on her face.

Stiles closes the text window and shrugs, placing the phone back down on Scott's coffee table. Scott raises an eyebrow and swallows his mouthful of food.

"You're texting Derek again, aren't you?" he asks. Stiles wonders when he became so predictable. He thinks it was about the same time he fell hopelessly in lust.

"Scott," sighs Allison. Stiles shakes his head.

"It's fine." He turns to Scott. "I'm not, actually. Just getting texts from his family. I think they see me as some sort of prodigal son, you know. They probably prefer me to him. I'm far less grouchy."

"That's not what you were saying a few days ago," mumbles Scott, at the same time as Allison says, "Actually, you've been pretty grumpy these past couple of days."

"Et tu, Brutus?" Stiles says, sighing.

"Dude," says Scott. "You told Jackson to stop living life like a mascara commercial. You're lucky you still have a life to live."

"Well, it's not my fault he has ridiculous eyelashes," mutters Stiles.

"It's not his, either," Allison points out. Stiles shrugs.

Maybe he has been a little off these past few days. It's not his fault. He misses Derek, and he's not too proud to admit it.

Not to himself, anyway. There's no way he's telling Scott.

"Are you all right?" Allison asks, voice soft and face carefully neutral, and Stiles realises he's been doing that thing he tends to do when he's thinking about something unsavoury; wrinkling his nose in distaste. He nods and plasters on a fake smile.

"I'm fine," he replies. "Just remembering that time I walked in on Scott naked after lacrosse practice in junior high."

Scott chokes on a bit of burrito, and Stiles thinks it serves him right.

* * *

Waiting for Derek, Stiles thinks, is a little like waiting for his own execution. He actually thinks that might be preferable. At least it would be quick.

He realises that his left leg is jiggling with nerves and he places his hand on it to still it, takes a sip of lukewarm coffee – plain, because Stiles has never been the kind of person to order chocolate and cream and caramel and orphan tears in his coffee. It just takes too much time, and there's too much room for error - from a cup that reads 'Myles', and grimaces. He looks at his watch. 12:11. Derek's late.

It's not like Stiles doesn't deserve it. From Derek's point of view, everything had been going swimmingly until Stiles suddenly cut off contact. He doesn't have a view into Stiles' thought processes, doesn't have a window inside his head, and probably thinks that Stiles is a complete douche. Which, you know, Stiles can admit is a fairly logical conclusion to draw.

Half of him is expecting Derek to stand him up. He wouldn't blame him if he did. All Derek knows is that Stiles has been ignoring him. He can't have any idea why. He probably thinks that Stiles is just a total asshole and not the delicate, bruised flower that he really is.

A spotty young barista comes over to take his empty coffee cup, and Stiles meets his eye. He looks bored as Hell. Stiles can empathise.

"Could I get another one of these, please?" Stiles asks him, picking up the cup. The boy fixes him with a blank stare.

"Another polystyrene cup?" he says. Stiles blinks.

"Another filter coffee," he corrects him.

"Make that two," says a sure-sounding voice from behind him, and Stiles squeaks inadvertently and turns around as quickly as he can, because even though Stiles has never heard that voice before, he knows who it is.

"It's just plain, boring coffee," Stiles stammers out.

"I know," says Derek. He walks around to the chair in front of Stiles and sits down in it, Stiles watching him whilst doing his best impression of a starstruck Belieber as he does so.

The thing is, Derek's Facebook picture hadn't really done him justice. In that photograph he'd looked surly, immodest and haughty, but there's an air of nervousness and uncertainty about him in real life, even taking into account the leather jacket and black t-shirt, that's at once both endearing as Hell and appealing to the masochistic streak within Stiles that's attracted solely to people who are more broken than he is. He still has the stupidly high cheekbones, the eyes that can probably see right through Stiles and into his rapidly beating heart and the perpetual sex hair that Stiles can admit has kept him up at night a few times, but it's all dressed up with an actual personality now, and if Stiles had found him attractive before, the photograph and the personality as two separate entities, it's nothing compared to the whole package.

Derek drums his fingers on the table, dragging Stiles back to reality, and Stiles realises he should probably say something.

"Thanks for coming," he rushes. Derek blinks.

"Thank _you_ for coming," he returns. "I wasn't sure you would. You've been kind of quiet these past few days."

Stiles blushes furiously.

"Been busy," he lies. "College work, saving kittens from burning buildings. You know. That sort of thing. Normal stuff."

Derek grins.

"Now, that's a lie," he says, and Stiles can feel his insides twist. He's busted.

"What," he says, aiming for smooth and failing miserably. Derek smiles benevolently.

"You don't do college work," he states.

Stiles feels something that's a lot like relief, and Derek looks at him, face schooled carefully into a mask of faint amusement. Stiles watches as he continues to drum his fingers on the table, tries to count the beats. The irritatingly romantic corner of his brain insists on comparing them to his heartbeat, which, admittedly, is racing.

He's starting to realise that ignoring a couple of texts isn't going to get Derek Hale out of his head.

"Fuck," he says.

Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles struggles to think with his upstairs brain.

"I'm sorry?" says Derek, and Stiles curses the fact that he was clearly born under a dark star.

"It's just," he begins, gesticulating inarticulately to convey a point he's not even sure he can make. "It's pretty awesome seeing you in real life. I don't know, dude. You're just the same, y'know? It's cool."

Derek frowns.

"How else would I be?"

Stiles shrugs.

"I don't know," he says again. "Not you, I guess."

Derek smiles; a small lop-sided smile, like he's afraid that smiling won't suit him. It definitely does.

"I'm definitely me," he confirms.

Stiles swallows, and whatever drivel he was about to come out with is mercifully interrupted by the appearance of the barista with two cups of coffee. Stiles isn't even slightly surprised to see that Derek's cup, bereft of a name, has instead been hastily scrawled on with the barista's phone number. Derek looks at the number as the barista scurries off, flushing crimson, and something shifts in his expression. He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and produces Stiles' battered Blackberry.

"I believe this is yours," he says. Stiles grins.

"Oh, hey!" he says, taking the phone from Derek's hand and holding it close to his ear. "Did the strange man treat you well, baby? It's OK, don't worry about it. Daddy's here now. You're safe."

Derek raises his eyebrow again.

"Should I leave you two alone?" he questions. Stiles shrugs, and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out Derek's phone and sliding it across the table to him.

"I was starting to think I'd be stuck with a phone that had a photograph of a tree as the background image," he explains. "You can see why I'm glad to get mine back."

Derek's face falls slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't say anything. Stiles is too caught up in the fact that everything's going well to really focus on it. He's surprised at the ease with which they're conversing, considering they haven't spoken in three days and it's been entirely Stiles' fault. He had expected to be greeted with an awkward silence, perhaps a brisk handshake and a quick espresso, shared in duty and not friendship, and then a goodbye, another handshake, maybe a thank you. He hadn't expected this, whatever it is.

He looks at Derek, who's scrolling through his phone with a very confused look on his face.

"Why are there pictures of butts on my phone?" he asks, and Stiles' face falls. He could explain the Jackson thing, but he quite likes the idea that Derek doesn't currently know how much of a weirdo he actually is, and he'd like to keep it that way.

"Oh. That. I'm a professional butt photographer. I could take a picture of your butt, if you like. Or I could, y'know. Not do that." Stiles sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and Derek is clearly trying very hard not to laugh. "Can we pretend this conversation never happened?"

"No, Stiles, because this conversation is the kind of thing you can lord over someone as blackmail material for decades to come."

"Will I know you in decades to come?"

"I don't know. Will you?"

Derek looks down at his coffee, face flushed slightly red, and Stiles is suddenly struck by how similar he is to what he'd been expecting, but also how different. The confidence is still there but it's marred with uncertainty, the good looks unbalanced with nervousness, and Stiles regrets the past three days, because it's pretty obvious that he threw away three days of contact with someone pretty awesome to try and pander to a pride that's already broken.

He remembers what Laura had told him, and his heart swells a little at the thought that this man actually likes him.

Stiles can throw caution to the wind, sometimes. Sometimes he orders spicy food in restaurants even though he knows he might live to regret the outcome. He doesn't need to keep Derek at arm's length. He can give him a chance. Derek likes him. Derek _likes_ him. The thought strikes him as shocking, even now, because Stiles is used to being on the other side, used to feeling like he feels now, but isn't really used to those feelings being returned.

Stiles clears his throat, and Derek looks up at him expectantly. The midday sunlight shines through the coffee shop's large front windows and catches the side of Derek's face, highlighting razor sharp cheekbones and light green eyes, and Stiles thinks _fuck it_ and says the only thing he can say when it's hard to breathe.

"Do you want to see my apartment?"

Derek narrows his eyes, and Stiles' stomach flips right over.

"We've already switched phones," Derek points out. Stiles tilts his head.

"Yeah, but I have an awesomely baroque fireplace," he counters.

Derek picks up his phone – and it's definitely his phone this time, Stiles is slightly disappointed to notice – and shoves it in his pocket.

"Never could resist a good fireplace," Derek replies, and Stiles can't stop himself from grinning.

He knows there's a chance he'll regret it later, that Derek might not be any better than the last person Stiles spent a night with, but he _might_ be, and now isn't later, and now is what matters.

* * *

Stiles wakes up to the sound of someone texting. He's a chronically light sleeper, always has been, and he's not surprised to find that it's only 5am. He stretches out, aching pleasantly in that way that only ever means one thing, and yawns. He feels the body pressed against him stiffen slightly, and not in the interesting way. He turns over, bubble of worry starting to form in the pit of his belly, and sees Derek, half-sitting up, fully dressed, a guilty expression on his face.

And this is it, really. It's not the first time Stiles has been walked out on after a one night stand. It's not the first, and it won't be the last. And yet somehow, the hurt feels new, feels like nothing he's ever experienced before, because Derek _liked_ him, Laura said so, and he shouldn't be sneaking out of Stiles' apartment at nope o'clock in the morning. It hurts. It's like a yellow bruise, flowering under Stiles' skin and his fucking pride, and it _hurts._

"You're leaving," Stiles states flatly, voice rough with morning. Derek does, at least, have the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"I can't do this, Stiles. I'm not..." His voice falters, and Stiles swallows down the flickering flames of anger like a bitter pill.

"Not gay? Don't say 'not gay', because you sucked cock like you were at least a little interested."

Derek flushes, and Stiles grips the bedsheets tightly, annoyed at how attractive he still finds Derek when he blushes.

"It's not that. I'm not – I'm not looking for anything. I'm still getting over someone. Sorry."

There's an acidic taste on Stiles' tongue as the words form.

"Kate Argent."

Derek looks at him, wide-eyed.

"How did you - "

"Your sister told me." Stiles isn't even trying to disguise the resentment in his voice now, doesn't think he could if he tried. "What did she do to you, huh? Leave you for your best friend? Cheat on you? Fuck you and leave at 5am the next morning?"

Derek looks down at the phone that's still in his hand.

"She shouldn't have told you," he says softly, more to himself than Stiles, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

He's done. He took a risk, and it didn't pay off. He can admit when he's defeated. Doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Key's under the mat. Lock the door when you go."

He turns over to face the window, and Derek lingers for a few moments as though he has something else to say, before giving up and leaving. After a few moments, Stiles hears the click of a key in the lock, and he burrows into the sheets like a chrysalis.

He should have known better to expect more. Laura hadn't known Derek as well as she thought she had. He'd been flirting because he could, not because he wanted anything more.

Ignoring Derek had been pointless. You can't hold something at a distance if it doesn't exist.

Suddenly, Stiles wants Lydia. He wants Scott, wants Allison and Erica, wants someone to hug him and tell him that he's still pretty damn desirable and then watch Bridget Jones' Diary with him until they both fall asleep on the sofa. He doesn't want it. He needs it.

He sits up and leans over the side of the bed, scrabbling for his phone, which is lying on the floor where it had fallen in Stiles' hurry to disrobe. He picks it up and unlocks it, and then his blood runs cold and his heart threatens to stop beating.

The background image is a forest.

"Fuck," says Stiles.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles wakes up at 10am, having missed his class yet again, to an empty bed. He's disappointed, if not surprised.

He pulls himself up so he's sitting with his back against the headboard and turns to look at his bedside table, where Derek's Blackberry sits and glares at him menacingly.

"You can fuck off," Stiles tells it. It ignores him.

And then it doesn't. Derek's ringtone for Laura is hideous – Stiles had been tempted to change it to The Safety Dance, before he realised that Derek was an awful person carved by fallen angels in Hell – but fit for purpose as, desperate to end the straining tones of Bon Jovi, Stiles sighs and answers the call.

"This is becoming a habit," he says, skipping the greeting part altogether and racing towards the inevitably awkward conclusion of the conversation.

"Don't hang up," Laura responds.

"Look, I really don't know what you could possibly have to say to me, but - "

"You can talk!" She sounds indignant, and Stiles' curiosity is peaked along with his rage.

"What do you mean? I'm not the villain in this piece! I'm not even the anti-hero. I'm just the victim."

"You're a martyr, that's what you are." She pauses, and Stiles can hear the shaky intake of an angry breath, but before he can reiterate his innocence, she's speaking again. "What the Hell did you do to my brother?"

Well. He wasn't expecting that. His mouth opens and shuts a few times, apparently of its own volition, before he can arrange his thoughts to speak.

"Huh? Nothing! I mean, nothing that wasn't wholly consensual and very meticulously carried out. I can make a chronological list - "

"I don't mean – Stiles. He stomped in about three hours ago with a face like thunder and hidden in his room. He hasn't done that since..."

"Since?"

She sighs.

"Since before he met you, Stiles."

"We only met yesterday."

"No, you didn't. Not really."

"Look, this is all lovely, but he's the one that left, all right? I didn't kick him out. I mean, have you seen him? He's not the kind of person you kick out of anywhere."

"He's my brother, Stiles."

"Yeah, I got that from the whole protective sister routine."

"It's really not a routine."

"It's _becoming_ routine."

"Stiles, for..." She trails off, and Stiles can hear her count to ten under her breath.

"What?" he asks, because he's a glutton for punishment.

"I didn't know he left," she answers, a little more quietly than Stiles is used to hearing her. "I'm sorry. Shit. My brother's an idiot. I'm sorry, Stiles. Fuck, Derek... You're going to give him another chance, right?"

Stiles gasps indignantly.

"Another chance?" he says. "Yeah, that was right at the top of my to-do list. I love being made to look like a dick. In fact, I love it so much that I do it almost daily. I don't even need anyone else's help to do it, as kind as it was of Derek to offer his services. No, Laura, I am not going to give him another fucking chance."

She swears under her breath.

"I'm going to cut off his arm and beat him to death with it," she says. "Stiles. Please. He's not like that, I swear. He really, really isn't. He's a nice guy. He wears leather jackets because he thinks it makes him look cool and unapproachable and he doesn't shave as often as he should because he thinks the scruff makes him look tough but he's really, _really_ not a bad guy."

Stiles can't process what she's telling him, can't match it to the way Derek treated him last night.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks. He's acutely aware that he might not like the answer, but he's not the kind of person to avoid asking questions that need to be answered, never has been, so he grits his teeth and waits to be told that Derek is lonely, that Derek is a special snowflake who needs and craves the attention that Stiles is willing to give him.

He hears Laura sigh, and he bites his thumbnail anxiously. It's a bad habit, but hey, no-one's here to tell him to stop it.

"Because I like you, Stiles," she replies eventually, and Stiles' hand drops from his face in surprise. "So help me, I like you. And Derek does too, I know he does, despite his god-awful behaviour, and I think you'd be good for him. I really do."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. Derek _likes_ him? He'd thought that too, for a brief moment, but he's recently been handed some pretty damning evidence to the contrary, so she'll have to excuse him for not being entirely faithful.

"Oh," he manages to say. She clearly mistakes his response for one of surprise, because he hears her huff.

"God knows I've told you enough times," she says.

"No, wait," says Stiles, because this is his chance to say his piece and he's going to take it. "You're wrong, actually. He _doesn't_ like me. I thought he did, but he doesn't. If he did, he wouldn't have walked out, all right? You don't do that to some you can just about tolerate, let alone like. Maybe he's talked about me, or maybe he texted me a lot, but you know what? It passed the time. That was it. So please, for the love of all that is buttery and deep fried, stop telling me he likes me, OK? Just... just stop. It's giving me false hope."

There's a few short seconds of silence as Laura processes what he's said, and then he hears her clear her throat. She doesn't sound happy.

"For the love of – Stiles," she says. "I'm going to spell it out for you, preschool style, because clearly you can only handle bite-sized chunks of information. Derek. Doesn't. Do. One. Night. Stands."

"Well, he does, actually - "

"No. He doesn't."

"I have a rumpled set of sheets and a lingering sense of disappointment to prove otherwise."

"I have twenty-seven years' of knowing my brother to – OK, you know what, no."

Stiles blinks.

"No what?"

"I'm not getting into an argument about this. If he slept with you, then he didn't intend for it to be a one-time thing. That's just how it is. That's just how _Derek_ is. I know you'll argue with me, but I'm right. And I'm not saying he, you know, regretted it, but obviously something changed after the fact, and knowing my brother, he freaked out."

"Yeah, I kind of got that by the upping and leaving."

"You can't blame him, Stiles," she sighs. She sounds tired. Stiles knows the feeling. "He's been through a lot of crap, all right?"

Stiles knows.

"Kate Argent, right?" he says, bitterly. He's heard the name so many times, but he still knows nothing about her. It's infuriating, and Stiles is fed up. "Why can't you just tell me what happened?"

"Because it's not my place."

"Right." Stiles fiddles with the sleeve of his jumper, pulls the cuff down over his thumb and feels the soft fabric. It's a gesture that reminds him of his childhood, and if he doesn't feel wholly comforted, he does feel a little better.

"He'll tell you, Stiles, if you give him time."

Stiles huffs out a laugh.

"Not sure he wants my time."

"He does. I bet you anything that if I were to go into his room right now, I'd find him with his stupid big head hung in shame, trying to work out a way to resolve the situation that he's so idiotically created. He probably won't do anything about it because he thinks you hate him - "

"I kind of do."

"- but he'll be thinking about it. If you want his time – if you want to take the time to find out why he is how he is – then you can have it. But you'll have to go about it a different way."

"What, like let him know that I like him? Because call me old-fashioned, but I sort of thought that he would have got that from the fact I sucked his dick - "

"Jesus, Stiles," she says, exasperated. "No. That just tells him that you're sexually attracted to him, and without meaning to sound too Folgers commercial about it, he probably already knew that. Showing someone you _like_ them? That's different."

Stiles thinks about it. He supposes she has a point.

"So, what do I do?"

She pauses.

"You have to woo him, Stiles."

"Woo him," Stiles repeats flatly. "Right. How?"

"Jesus Christ, who am I, Dr Phil?" she says. "Figure it out. If you want to, I mean. It'll suck if you decide that you don't, but I guess I wouldn't really blame you."

Stiles scratches the bridge of his nose. He wants to tell her no, tell her that he's better than sitting around and waiting for someone to be ready who might never be, but he knows that would be a lie. Despite the regrettable events of the previous night, he still finds himself thinking about the time Derek texted him to reassure him that he hadn't done anything stupid when he was drunk, and it still makes him smile.

Damn.

"I don't know," he says, after a short pause. "I'll think about it."

"Do."

"I will."

And he knows that despite himself, despite the aching gnaw at the bottom of his stomach when he'd woken up to an empty bed, he will. He can't help it. He's a relentless optimist, has been since he was a child.

Then something strikes him, just as he's about to say goodbye. He frowns.

"Hang on, how did you know that I still had Derek's phone?"

Laura's silence is so pregnant with embarrassment that Stiles can practically hear her blush.

"Ah. Darn. Kind of hoped you wouldn't think of that."

"Well, y'know, I was on the Mathletes. Nothing gets past me. So, how'd you know?"

"Don't hate me," she starts. "But I may have... had something to do with that."

Stiles bites his lip.

"You mean Derek left his phone behind intentionally?" he asks. "Because y'know, I had wondered - "

"No, no, God no," she interrupts. "He'll kill me when he finds out. No, this has nothing to do with him. I sort of... switched the background on your phone. And I felt fucking awful doing it because Derek told me it was a picture of your mom, so I made sure there was a copy saved on the memory card and everything, but I transferred a couple of Derek's pics from his laptop onto your phone when he wasn't looking, then set one of them as the background so he'd think your phone was his when he picked it up. It was touch and go, you know, because if you'd looked at your phone properly at any point then you'd have noticed it. Thank God you're a man and about as observant as frogspawn."

"I object to that," says Stiles, then stops. "Does this mean that my phone background is currently a forest?"

"Afraid so."

"This had better be worth it."

"It will be," she assures him, and her voice is soft enough that Stiles can almost believe her. "I have to go now, but we'll talk later, OK?"

"Sure," he says, because despite his problems with Derek, Stiles actually likes Laura, can imagine them being friends even without Derek in the picture. "See you."

He hangs up, the feeling of shame in his gut replaced with something a little like dread.

He has no idea what he's going to do. The ball's in his park, he realises, and he's always been shit at playing midfield. He can text Derek, arrange to meet, allow himself to feel the little spark of hopefulness set by Laura, or he can ask her for their address and mail the phone back without needing to see or hear from Derek again.

He is, essentially, screwed. Both plans have a rather larger chance of ultimate unhappiness than Stiles feels comfortable with.

He's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. So, he does what he does every time he's faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem. He pulls on his shoes, shoves a beanie over his bed-hair, and goes to buy six pints of cookie dough ice cream.

* * *

Scott and Lydia find him on the third day. Stiles is only a little miffed that they hadn't come sooner, if only because it would have saved him $20 on Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

Lydia takes one look at him, pitifully curled under his childhood blanket on the sofa, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and coke cans, and raises an eyebrow. Scott wrinkles his brow in confusion and what Stiles thinks looks a lot like horror.

"Hi, guys," Stiles greets them. He'd wave, but he doesn't think he has the strength.

"Oh my God, Stiles," says Scott, scrunching up his nose in distaste. "You look like you've been mauled."

Stiles cranes his neck down and pulls open the front of his t-shirt a little. He's only mildly embarrassed to see that his entire neck and upper torso is still covered in small bruises.

"Wow," Lydia says, crossing her arms and sounding as impressed as Stiles thinks it's possible to sound when your best friend is covered in lovebites, ice cream and shame. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing that wasn't wholly consensual and immediately regretted," he sighs. "I take it you don't want the full details."

"Yes!" protests Lydia.

"Dude," says Scott, flatly. "No. Too much information."

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"Not fair, man," he says. "I had to hear all about the butt stuff with Allison last week!"

Scott flushes, and Lydia coughs.

"There's a lady in the room, gentlemen," she says. "And this lady is opting out of butt talk this morning. Now, Stiles. What are we going to do with you?"

Stiles shrugs.

"I'm down with anything right now, to be honest," he answers. "Shoot me, hang me, lay me down on a highway to die. Anything goes."

Lydia raises an eyebrow. Stiles is beginning to wonder if this is her default 'Stiles, you're a complete moron' expression. It seems likely.

"None of those things are options," she tells him. "But you know what is? A shower, because you stink, Stiles."

She turns on her heel and heads into his bedroom, and Stiles can hear her rummaging around in his drawers, muttering under her breath about the state of his flat.

Scott looks at Stiles. Stiles looks at Scott.

"So," says Scott.

"Yeah," says Stiles, waving airily around his apartment. "Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel, man."

Scott winces.

"That bad?" he asks. Stiles nods.

"Pretty bad," he confirms. Scott looks sympathetic.

"I guess telling you not to think about it too much would be counter-productive, huh," he says. Stiles scoffs.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Telling me to stop thinking is like telling you to stop mooning over Allison or doing that thing with your jaw that makes you look like you have orthodontic problems," he agrees. "Not going to happen any time soon."

Lydia comes back into the living room then, her nose wrinkled in disgust and her arms full of Stiles' clothes.

"I couldn't find anything that matched," she announces, dumping the pile of clothes on top of Stiles, who protests loudly. "So I just picked up all the clean stuff I could find. Choose something that won't make me vomit, all right?"

Stiles gingerly lifts up a sock and sniffs it. She's right. It's clean. It's kind of amazing that she managed to find so much clean stuff considering he hasn't done laundry in three weeks. His room is practically a biohazard.

"Where are we going?" he asks cautiously, looking at Scott. Scott shrugs, and Lydia groans.

"We are going outside, gentlemen, into the great unknown," she replies. "Otherwise known as Allison's house. Her dad's hosting some kind of weird barbecue to welcome his new neighbours, and Allison requested back-up. We are that back-up."

Stiles moans.

"Can't I sit this one out?" he asks, ignoring the irritated glare that Scott shoots him.

Lydia looks at him pointedly.

"Can you sit your own intervention out?" she says. "No, Stiles. You can't. Now, go and get in the shower before I'm forced to _drag_ you."

Stiles doesn't doubt even for a second that she could. He goes.

* * *

The barbecue is, as Stiles could have predicted had been asked, weird as hell. He recognises maybe six of the people who are milling around and holding paper plates piled high with over-cooked hotdogs and under-cooked burgers, courtesy of Allison's father, who is manning the barbecue with a fierce look of protectiveness that Stiles has until now only seen on the faces of lionesses in late-night wildlife documentaries.

He and Erica are standing on the periphery of the main event. Lydia and Jackson are arguing nearby – Stiles has heard her mention the words 'hair gel' and 'Backstreet Boys' a few times – and Allison is boldly introducing Scott to a few visiting cousins. Scott, to his credit, appears to be making a good impression, probably partly down to the fact that Allison's arm is snaked reassuringly around his waist. It kindles something in Stiles, the soft, loving look on Allison's face and the way her fingers bunch around the creases in his shirt, stroke little comforting circles. It feels a bit like envy.

He sniffs. Still. Cats make noble companions. His future won't be _that_ lonely.

He wriggles, his freshly laundered jeans – Lydia had taken it upon herself to do his washing for him while he was in the shower - itching in the crook of his knee. Erica looks at him strangely, and Stiles pulls a face that he hopes conveys his situation. Judging by her mildly traumatised response, he fails. He sighs. Erica swallows a mouthful of ketchup-slathered burger bun.

"What's eating you?" she asks. Stiles ignores the obviously intentional pun, all too aware that the t-shirt he's wearing doesn't come even close to covering up the marks on his neck.

"The state of affairs in Gaza," he replies. "It's just awful, you know?"

Erica rewards him with a withering glare, and Stiles actually shivers.

"I'm not an idiot," she says, looking at him like he's a child who's been caught eating ice cream off the floor of a public bathroom. "Which is clearly more than can be said for some people."

"I resent that," says Stiles. "I prefer the term 'socially challenged'."

"You're challenged in more ways than that, Pup," Erica returns, but her use of the nickname (that Stiles will die if anyone else finds out about) reassures him that she means it fondly. "You can tell me, you know. I won't tell anyone. Probably."

"It's nothing big," he assures her. "Just got a bit of a decision to make, that's all."

Erica nods knowingly.

"About Derek, right?" she asks.

Stiles is about to reply in the affirmative when a tap on his shoulder interrupts him. He turns to see a woman, maybe ten years older than him, with full lips and perfectly coiffed hair that's out of odds with both the attire of everyone around them and her own slightly scruffy, form-fitting clothes.

"I'm sorry," says the woman, voice saccharine in a way that can only be forced. Stiles is sure that most people fall for it. "That wouldn't be Derek Hale, would it?"

Stiles looks at Erica. Her face is hard, set in a stony mask of carefully concealed rage. She's perhaps one wrong word away from snapping.

He's about to ask the woman why she wants to know when Allison appears, seemingly from nowhere, and beams at them both.

"There you are!" she says, grinning broadly at the woman, who returns the expression with a tight smile. "Stiles, this is my aunt. I don't think you've met, have you? Well, Kate, this is Stiles. He's one of Scott's friends."

Stiles feels his heart actually turn over, threatening to burst right through his ribcage, and he has to seriously resist the urge to nope right out of there.

Kate Argent. He could smack himself for being such an idiot. Argent is hardly a common surname. He should have made the connection before. How could he have missed it? His blood feels cold in his veins. From the corner of his eye he inspects her, takes in her nipped-in waist, her cold eyes, and it doesn't take a lot to start to understand how she must have hurt Derek. Kate Argent has destruction written all over her like it's part of her DNA, and Stiles feels a lot like collateral.

He coughs, partly in an attempt to clear his airways, which seem to have constricted.

"I'm sorry, guys, but I have to use the bathroom," he says. Erica is still staring at Kate as though she wants to tear her limb from limb. Stiles half wishes she would and half wishes she'd let him do the job. Allison pulls a sad face.

"All right," she says. "But don't be too long! It feels like I haven't seen you in ages!"

"I'll try and take a maximum of three days," Stiles promises. "Can't promise anything, not with your dad's cooking."

He leaves before Allison can embroil him in a jovial, well-meaning argument. He doesn't need any distractions right now, doesn't need to look at that woman and be reminded of who she is, what she might've done.

When he's a safe distance away from everyone else, he pulls out Derek's phone from his trouser pocket. His mouth is dry, his hands shaking slightly, and he does _not_ need a tremor-induced typo right now.

What should he say? He can't mention that he's just met Kate. God, Derek would probably die. _Give him time_, Laura had said. He doubts that three days is sufficient. An apology would be admitting guilt that he doesn't feel – for all he can admit to wanting to get back in touch with Derek, he's not about to start pretending that he's anything other than the victim in this particular scenario – but would almost certainly get the ball rolling for conversation.

He inhales, exhales, tries to think, to come up with something witty and friendly and appropriate. He fails.

"Fuck it," he mutters under his breath. There's no right or wrong. Something is better than nothing.

_Hi.  
_**[Sent 14:59]**

* * *

Stiles has never really been that great at starting over. Turning a new page, starting from the beginning, turning over a new leaf; they're all concepts that he's a fan of in theory, but in practice, he's always been the sort of person to dwell on things, hold grudges that probably shouldn't be held. It's the reason he sometimes refuses to drive Scott to Allison's when Scott's car breaks down, because in tenth grade, Scott had chosen to ask his mother to drive Lydia to ballet class instead of helping Stiles home from baseball practice. It's petty, sure, and Stiles knows it, but he still gets a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing a soaked Scott standing in his porch, face like thunder and an aura of righted karma.

So, it's with some trepidation that he approaches this thing with Derek. He figures that 'hi' is pretty innocuous, which is essentially what he's aiming for, with a side portion of '_I'm still really mad at you'_ and a dessert of deep-fried '_you might actually be a bad person, but I'm not, so here's an olive branch_'. He sends the text, puts his phone away and doesn't check it again for three hours, until he's left the barbecue – thankfully devoid of Kate, who left while Stiles was still panicking over his inbox - and is sat safely at home on his couch, Scott pottering about in the kitchen in a semi-drunken state, attempting to make a grilled cheese sandwich (because apparently six burgers and three hotdogs doesn't constitute a meal).

_I'm sorry.  
_**[Received 15:34]**

It's two words. It's only two words, but Stiles thinks they might be the right two words, or at least as right as they can be. It's not going to take away the bitterness of what happened, won't make him forgive Derek, but it might pave the way to a semi-decent conversation. He can't deny he's missed that.

The problem is, he has no idea how to reply to that. He can't say that it's OK, because it isn't. It's far from it. His neck and chest are still marked with bruises and his pride is in a similar state. He can't say that he knows, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know Derek at all, no matter how he thought he had. And he doesn't want to ignore it, because despite it all, he still wants to get to know him, albeit at a much slower and more tentative pace than before.

He chews his lip thoughtfully.

"Stiles, where do you keep the paté?" Scott peeks his head around the living room door, t-shirt smeared with cheese, and Stiles groans.

"I thought you were making a grilled cheese sandwich."

Would '_I understan_d' be suitable? He thinks he understands. He's beginning to, anyway.

"That's peasant food," Scott argues.

"Dude, no offence, but we're students. We _are_ peasants."

No; on second thought, that's too formal. He's not replying to a request for sick leave. '_Forget it'_?

"Speak for yourself. I'm not a peasant. I'm at least a baron. What kind of person doesn't have paté?" Scott asks incredulously, gripping the doorframe in a way that suggests he'd be swaying if he didn't. Stiles huffs. No, he can't tell Derek to forget it when he has absolutely no hope of forgetting it himself.

"Stiles, tell me I'm a duke," Scott whines, and Stiles lowers the Blackberry and meets Scott's eye with a warning look.

"Dude, no offence, but I'm kind of preoccupied here," he says. "I don't have time to find you any ground meat products."

Scott pulls a face.

"Don't describe it like that," he says. "Way too Jeffrey Dahmer for me. And what are you so preoccupied with? Who are you texting?"

Stiles remembers the scene Scott had seen earlier, coming into Stiles' flat to find him heartbroken and covered with ice cream on the sofa, and realises that admitting he's considering texting the man who'd been the cause of that spectacular fall from grace might not be the smartest move. It's time to deflect.

"No-one," he lies. "And hey, how do you know who Jeffrey Dahmer is but not Freud?"

Scott raises an eyebrow and lets go of the doorframe, staggering over to the sofa and plonking himself down next to Stiles before fixing him with a stern look.

"Stiles," he says. "If you're texting that douchebag who broke your heart into ten thousand pieces, I will break both your legs. No, scrap that. I'll break both _his_ legs and make you watch."

"Dude, no way could you break his legs, he's built like - "

"_Stiles._"

Stiles surrenders, sighing.

"Fine. Yes. I'm going to text him. Happy?"

Scott looks at him pityingly, a wide-eyed expression of disappointment that's surprisingly successful even when framed with traces of smeared cheese.

"You know I'm not."

Stiles groans and stares at the ceiling.

"I'm not forgiving him, if that's what you think." Scott is silent, and Stiles rubs his face and continues. "I'm not... look, I don't know what I'm doing. He was a dick, yeah, but he had a reason, and - "

"You don't even know what his reason was!" Scott interrupts, and Stiles looks at his friend. He's stony-faced. "Fine, I get it, he had a bad break-up, but we've all had those, and we don't use it to screw over the people who care about us."

Stiles isn't sure what Scott knows about bad break-ups, having been in a steady relationship with Allison for the past three centuries, but he doesn't feel it would be diplomatic to point it out. Instead, he looks at Derek's phone. He's typed out the words '_I get it'_, but it's not what he wants to send. It doesn't express the extent of his anger, doesn't convey his desire to find out why Derek did what he did.

"I don't think he's a bad guy," Stiles says quietly, and Scott's face softens. "He did a bad thing, yeah, it was a total dick move, but I think I can salvage something from this – something small, maybe, but something – if I find out _why_."

Scott sighs and rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder, a gesture that is inherently comforting. Stiles is lucky to have Scott. He's kind of awesome, even when drunk and craving meatstuffs. Stiles leans into the touch, because that's the kind of friendship he and Scott have – have had it since they were twelve and Stiles was crushing hard on Tommy Bates in the ninth grade – and Scott reaches around awkwardly and pats Stiles on the head. It has the effect of enveloping Stiles in a weird, uncomfortably bony half-hug.

"I just don't want you to open up to him again only to get hurt," Scott begins. "Because you've always done that. You always give people everything and you don't even mind when you get nothing in return. It's like, I don't know, you think you have to give everything to keep people interested, but you don't, you know? And I'm not the Psychology student here, but sometimes I think you don't realise that people will take you as you are, and they'll take the time to get to know you a bit better. This is probably coming off a little more gay than I'd planned, but I love you, man. You deserve someone who'll wait for all of you, and then be fucking overjoyed when he gets it. Or she. Whichever, man."

Scott finishes his piece with an awkward, crooked smile, and Stiles can actually feel himself welling up a little, a lump forming at the back of his throat, and he's silent for a few seconds.

"Dude, I'm going to have to get you drunk more often, because that was beautiful."

Scott flushes and shoves Stiles, who laughs.

"No, really. It was touching. Moving, even. I may shed a tear, one of those solitary, manly ones that accentuates my chiselled jaw line - "

"You wish, Stilinski," says Scott, but it's fond, not exasperated. He ruffles Stiles' hair, and Stiles picks up the phone again. Scott watches, and if he's disapproving, he hides it well. "If it's what you want, then go get him, tiger. You know I'll be here to pick up the pieces."

Stiles grins.

"You need to break up with Allison at some point so I can repay the favour."

Scott shoves him again.

"Send the damn text, Stiles. And make it a good one."

And suddenly, Stiles knows exactly what to send. He deletes the unsent text from before and replaces the words with just one. Scott looks at him.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

Stiles pauses, hesitating for a few brief seconds before hitting send.

_Explain.  
_**[Sent 17:23]**

* * *

Scott leaves half an hour later, having consumed an entire jar of peanut butter and dropped crumbs all over Stiles' couch. Stiles can't find it within himself to be annoyed. Before he goes, Scott looks at Stiles earnestly and invites him to the gym tomorrow. Stiles takes a few moments to consider the probability of running into Derek again – unlikely, he decides, as he doesn't get the impression he gets out very often at all – before accepting. His limbs ache from lack of exercise. He could do with it.

When Scott has gone, Stiles flops back onto the sofa and takes a moment to listen to the eerie silence of his flat. He's fed up of it. He swears he can hear it taunt and mock him. He's about to do something stupid, like put some Madonna on the stereo – so sue him, he's a single man – when he hears Derek's Blackberry vibrate from the coffee table and he scrabbles to pick it up.

_You're right, I do owe you an explanation as well as an apology. It's... complicated. I owe you the full story, but I think the only way I can do that is in person.  
_**[Received 18:04]**

Stiles blinks. How complicated can the full story be? He's seen Kate, who pretty much embodies the stereotype of a 'femme fatale', and thinks he's got a pretty good idea of what happened already.

He thinks about coming face to face with Derek again, and the thought makes his toes curl in embarrassment. Derek has seen him at his most naked and vulnerable, and he still walked out.

Derek's sorry. Derek left. Derek wants to meet. Derek's sorry. The facts make sense, but they don't help Stiles come to any conclusion. The ball is still completely in Stiles' court.

_I'll consider it.  
_**[Sent 18:07]**

_Thank you. And for what it's worth – which I know might not be a lot – I really am sorry.  
_**[Received 18:09]**

Stiles has to smile at that. From what he knows of Derek, he's pretty shit at admitting when he's wrong, and he knows that text must have hurt like blue murder to write, let alone send. He's about to put the phone down again and do some serious thinking about meeting Derek, possibly with the aid of a list of pros and cons and some Aretha Franklin, when the Blackberry buzzes again, and Stiles frowns.

_My sister told me that she talked to you. I don't know what she said, but I didn't tell her to do that. If you can, please don't let whatever she said affect your decision.  
_**[Received 18:10]**

The 'please' throws Stiles momentarily. He struggles to remember what Laura had said to him in their conversation a few days ago. Then, he remembers, and something hot and a little like anger flares in the pit of his belly. He's texting before he knows what he's doing.

_She told me to try and earn you back. To woo you.  
_**[Sent 18:11]**

Just looking at the words printed in black and white on the screen makes him realise just how fucking ridiculous they are. It hadn't hit him before, but now there's white hot rage where there was once weary acceptance, and he wonders exactly where Laura gets off on babysitting her brother. Sure, he's younger than her, but he's not _young_. He's older than Stiles, and Stiles does pretty well out of diapers. And who does she think she is, making Stiles think that what happened was his fault? He doesn't have a perfect eidetic memory, but he's pretty sure he was the one who got jilted at 5am.

Derek's actions, he thinks he can understand, but Laura's? Not so much.

_I don't want you to do that. You don't have to do that.  
_**[Received 18:13]**

Well, it's comforting to know that Stiles isn't the only one who thinks so. Still, he's not in the mood to talk to anyone but Aretha Franklin and a bottle of wine right now.

_I know. I'm not in a great mood right now. I'll text you later about meeting up.  
_**[Sent 18:14]**

And with that, he throws the phone down onto the sofa and uses the landline to call Erica.

* * *

The club is crowded, and it's really not to Stiles' taste at all. He sits at the bar next to Erica, clutching a bottle of something sweet and alcoholic, and he's surrounded on all sides by people dancing and moving without reason to the throbbing thrum of some dance track from the mid 90s that's playing so loudly Stiles can barely hear his own voice. On his other side, a middle-aged man with a sweat patch down his back in the vague shape of Chile is trying in vain impatience to order three beers from the harried barmaid, who only looks about eight. Stiles looks over at Erica, who's resting her elbow on the bar, glass of something sickly green in her other hand, and tapping her fingers rhythmically on the rim. She looks so at home here, like she's actually enjoying witnessing the basal mating rituals of the people around her, that Stiles actually wants to throw up. Knowing Erica, she's taking some kind of perverse, cynical pleasure in it. She's the kind of person who places bets on divorce dates at weddings, and isn't often wrong.

Stiles has had enough. He's not drunk enough for this shit, and doesn't plan on being so any time soon. He stands up from the barstool, almost elbowing the middle-aged man next to him in the process and earning himself a very displeased snarl, and Erica protests. Stiles can't hear exactly what she's saying over the music, but he shakes his head anyway.

"I'm leaving," he says, enunciating clearly so that she can lip-read, and pushes his way through the crowd towards the exit. When he's finally outside, he takes a deep breath of clean, crisp air, and he feels instantly calmer, his pulse rate almost returning to normal. He's about to start walking home – thankfully, it's only three blocks – when he feels a hand on his upper arm. It's Erica, and she doesn't look happy. She looks almost concerned.

"Stiles, you need to tell me what's wrong, and you need to tell me now," she says, and she sounds a little desperate. It's sort of shocking, because Erica never sounds desperate; she sounds brave, and she sounds angry, and she sounds sarcastic and seductive and confident, but never desperate. Stiles puts his head in his hands. He can feel the warmth of the alcohol starting to take effect. He leans back against the wall of the club and sinks down until he's sitting on cold concrete.

"I'm fucked," he answers. He looks up at her, and he knows what he wants from her. "I need you to tell me what Kate Argent did to Derek, Erica. You know. You've known him for years. Can't you just tell me?"

Erica sighs, and kneels on the floor next to him. She rubs the space between his shoulder blades, and it's so comforting that Stiles could almost forget that this is the woman who once threw a chair at someone for sassing her.

"I'm calling you a cab," she says, taking out her phone from the pocket of her jeans. Stiles grabs her by the wrist, stopping her from dialling, and she looks at him, startled. That she hasn't already punched him in the nose says a lot.

"Tell me," he repeats, eyes scanning her face for any tell that she's acting, because this isn't Erica behaviour. He doesn't find any. "How bad can it have been?"

Erica closes her eyes, sighs again and shifts position so that she's sitting down properly, legs outstretched alongside Stiles' on the ground, and fixes him with a sad gaze.

"Pretty bad, Stiles," she replies. She looks at him, a little forlornly. "What's that boy done to your heart, baby?"

Stiles considers it.

"Scott thinks he's broken it," he says. "But I don't think he has. I think he's just... for want of a less Julia Roberts-y word, captured it."

Erica looks thoughtful.

"Then I guess you deserve to know," she ponders. "But are you sure you wouldn't rather hear it from him?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Everything's confusing," he says, and he knows it's not an answer to the question, but it's the truth. "I think I'm supposed to hate him. Everyone thinks I should be angry – and I am angry, don't get me wrong, but I'm also sympathetic. I don't know. Maybe it's because I spend my days reading textbooks about damaged people. Maybe I'm projecting. But I think there's more to it than that."

Erica smiles, fond and melancholy, and brushes a strand of hair from Stiles' forehead.

"I understand," she says. Stiles huffs, and she fixes him with a warning glare that's a lot more like her usual behaviour. It sets him at ease at once. "I really do." She sighs, leaning her head back against the brickwork. "When I was seventeen, I knew this guy. His name was Jim – don't laugh, the name maketh not the man – and I fell in love with him the day I met him. I was so fucking gone for him, you know? And I thought he was gone for me too, but..." She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, resting mid-thigh, and smiles sadly again. "I guess he wasn't."

Stiles pats her on the knee sympathetically.

"That sucks," he offers. She nods.

"Yeah. It did," she agrees, softly. "It really, really did. But you know what? I didn't hate him. I never hated him. Still don't. He never meant to hurt me, that was the thing. And how could I hate someone who didn't want to hurt me?"

Stiles looks at her. She's beautiful, he thinks. He wonders why he couldn't just fall in love with her.

"You're kind of incredible," he tells her, the alcohol loosening his tongue, and Erica beams at him. Stiles thinks her eyes look different.

"I know, Stiles," she says. "I'm fucking fabulous. Any guy would be lucky to have me, and I don't think Jim's ever won the lottery." Stiles hums in agreement, and Erica prods him. "You're kind of a catch too, you know," she says.

"Yeah," Stiles says noncommittally. He's still trying to get his head wrapped around the fact that Erica was once hurt, pride bruised, because he'd never know it to look at her. Her wounds have healed, and there's no scar tissue at all.

Everyone's different, he supposes.

"So," Erica says quietly, ending the seconds' silence. "Do you still want me to tell you about Kate Argent?"

Stiles thinks about it, and shakes his head.

"Derek can tell me," he decides. Erica nods, and if Stiles didn't know better, he'd think she looks a little proud. She gets to her feet, extending a hand and pulling Stiles up. He dusts his knees off, and offers her his arm, which she takes with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm escorting you home," he explains, and Erica sighs melodramatically. She still lets him lead her back to her apartment, and doesn't kick him out when he falls asleep face down on her bed.

* * *

Stiles wakes up, for the second time in as many weeks, in Erica's bed, with a mouth that tastes like regret and a head full of the right ingredients. He groans, and Erica peers around the doorframe. She's perfectly made up, dressed in a red blouse and black skirt, and looks exactly the opposite to how Stiles feels.

"You're up, then," she says. She looks at her watch, and groans. "Shit. I'm sorry to kick you out, but some of us have to make a living beyond pussying around at nightclubs. Leave the keys under the mat, OK Sleeping Beauty?"

Stiles grins, and Erica returns it, their conversation from last night not entirely forgotten, but hidden. For now.

* * *

He stops off at Starbucks on his way home, ordering as large an espresso as he legally can, and only sighing pointedly once when the barista has to ask how to spell 'Smiles'. He's four blocks away, about to take another sip of the delicious smelling elixir, when he hears Derek's phone ring in his pocket, and he swears loudly, earning himself a repulsed glare from an elderly woman. The nasal tones of Bon Jovi make sure that Stiles knows exactly who's calling, and he makes a mental note to find out where he can download a good quality mp3 of Carmina Burana's 'O Fortuna', the familiar pangs of irritation flaring in his gut as he brings the phone to his ear.

"Laura," he says, before she can greet him.

"Stiles," she returns, and she sounds positively fucking gleeful. "I'm glad you answered. I wanted to say thank you."

Stiles bites back the bitter taste of a clever retort.

"For what?" he asks curtly. If Laura detects the hint of annoyance in his voice, she chooses to overlook it.

"For agreeing to meet with Derek," she explains. "I'm glad you took my advice, because - "

Stiles doesn't want to hear any more. He's done with being told to take anyone's advice but his own.

"I'm not taking it," he says. "And by 'it', I'm referring to both your advice and your bullshit."

There's a short, startled silence, pregnant with confusion at Laura's end.

"Wow," she says, eventually. "OK. What?"

Stiles bites his lip.

"I'm not taking your advice," he repeats. "Because this, frankly, has nothing whatsoever to do with you. Nothing."

"Derek is my brother - "

"Yeah, and he's also his own person," Stiles cuts across her. "And that means he can do his own things, like make his own decisions, cut up his own food and wipe his own ass."

Laura gasps. Stiles sips his coffee as passive-aggressively as he can, which admittedly isn't very, but it makes him feel better anyway.

"I'm just trying to help."

Stiles looks around him, spotting a bench nearby and heading for it before it can be claimed by an older man in a red scarf, who looks like he has every intention of feeding pigeons from his soul.

"Look, I'm sure Derek appreciated it when he was fourteen, but he's an adult now, you know? He can make his own decisions. You can step back. He won't hate you for it."

He sits down, crossing his legs and finishing his coffee in one long swallow. Laura sighs.

"I wasn't there when he was fourteen."

Stiles blinks. This is new information.

"What? Where were you?" he questions

"Somewhere else," she replies shortly.

Stiles sighs and he figures that she must hear it, because she clears her throat defensively. He doesn't have time for this. He pushes on.

"Look, in the nicest way possible, you do sort of owe me an explanation."

He hears her huff defeatedly.

"Fine. I turned eighteen when he was thirteen. I'd just been rejected from my first choice of college, and you know, I couldn't see any prospects in Beacon Hills..."

He feels a spark of indignation alight in his veins, and he clenches and unclenches his fist to quell it.

"So you ran away? That's what you're trying to tell me?"

He hears an impatient sigh. Stiles doesn't think she's the one who has the right to be impatient in this, but he bites his tongue.

"Yes, Stiles. I ran away."

"Wow. Pushy parents, or...?"

"The opposite, actually. If I stayed there, I could see myself becoming just like my mother."

Stiles thinks of the one time Derek's ever mentioned his mother – when he mentioned her death – and can't remember any hint of animosity in his tone, even through text. Something isn't adding up.

"What does that even mean? Derek's only ever said good things about her."

"She wasn't a bad person, wasn't a bad mother, but she had no ambition, no drive. She was stuck in a dead-end job because she'd married too young. I didn't want that. I wanted to be somebody, make something of myself other than just passing on my DNA, you know? So I left."

She finishes with a decisive tone, and Stiles considers it.

"I guess Derek forgave you, though, seeing as you're living together now and all."

"It took him a long time, but yes. Eventually. Our dad died when I was nine – Derek was only three, probably can't remember anything about it – so when mom died, I came back to look after him. I was only twenty-one and I was basically a mother. I didn't have a career. I don't know, I guess I got everything I never wanted."

Stiles doesn't understand.

"So, what, this is like some kind of weird revenge - "

"No! Christ, no. It's me trying to make the very best of a completely shit situation. If I have to do this, then I'm going to do it the best I can." He hears her sigh again, an utterly defeated sound. "Look, I know I can be over-protective sometimes, all right? I know I go too far. I _know_. But it's not... it's not without reason."

Stiles looks up at the sky. It's threatening rain, and he vaguely recalls high-school English lessons on pathetic fallacy.

He empathises. He thinks of all the times he had to interfere in his dad's life – hide cans of beer, empty bottles of whisky down the sink, make appointments he knew wouldn't be kept – and he _understands_. That doesn't mean he has to appreciate it.

"I get it," he says. "Just stay out of it, OK?"

"OK - "

He hangs up before he can hear any argument against his actions. He's not going to listen. That's that. That's what he has to do, and it's what he'll do.

If he's going to talk to Derek, he's going to do it off his own back. He's going to say what he wants to say, react how he needs to react, because it doesn't matter to anyone else. He's not a puppet on frayed strings. He's the Yoda of his own destiny, and if anyone else doesn't like it, they can suck it.

He stands up, tossing his empty coffee cup into the bin, and notices that the sky seems a little clearer.

* * *

Boyd looks at Stiles disapprovingly.

"You hungover?" he asks, watching Stiles struggle to adjust to the bright lights of the changing room. Stiles fixes him with what he's pretty sure is a winning smile, and Jackson looks pained. Stiles grins.

"I'm hungequal," he responds. "I'm a modern man, Boyd."

Scott rolls his eyes, pulling on his jeans. He's having some difficulty, possibly due to the fact that he just bench-pressed the weight of a small cow.

"Cut him some slack," he tells Boyd. "He's lovelorn."

Stiles pulls a face, and Boyd laughs, crossing his arms and making no move to get dressed beyond a pair of jeans and one sock. Stiles doesn't know how he does it. He's not exactly ashamed of his own body – he knows he's kind of skinny, but he also knows that a lot of people go for that these days, and he's got killer abs – but Boyd takes 'body-confident' to a whole new level. He's been known to walk around the gym in just a pair of tiny shorts, much to the chagrin of the workout coach, who Stiles suspects of occasionally visiting Narnia.

"Don't know why he's lovelorn," Jackson says. "He went out with Erica, didn't he?"

"He's right here," Stiles protests, pulling on his t-shirt. "And yes, I did. You do know that she's just a friend though, right?"

Jackson shrugs, apparently tired of feigning interest in a conversation that doesn't involve him, and Scott shudders, tying his shoelaces.

"It takes a braver man than Stiles to take on Erica," he explains. Boyd looks confused, and – much to Stiles' amusement – slightly embarrassed. He remembers his conversation with Erica the previous night, and he smiles to himself.

"Well, what's the cause of the frowning face?" Boyd asks. Stiles zips up his hoodie.

"A gentleman never tells," he replies.

"Whatever," says Jackson, disinterestedly pulling on his shirt. "That guy over there totally has it hot for you. You should just fuck it out of your system."

Stiles doesn't even bother to turn around.

"He's probably just got gas," he says, dismissively. "And I have no interest in fucking anything out of my system, thank you very much."

"A man after my own heart," says Boyd drily.

"Just because you're after Erica's heart," retorts Jackson. Stiles is about to diffuse the situation with a well-placed joke when Scott grabs his arm.

"Stiles," he hisses.

"Ow," Stiles says wittily in response. Scott lets go of Stiles' arm.

"Derek Hale," says Scott. "Kind of big, right? Built a bit like a tank, but with a stunningly square jaw line, artfully mussed black hair and brooding eyes that could probably both impregnate and kill at several paces?"

Stiles narrows his eyes.

"Yes," he says, cautiously. Scott looks worried, and stares at a point behind Stiles' shoulder.

"Awkward moment at six o'clock," he says, and before Scott can stop him, Stiles has spun around.

Derek looks back at him, leather jacket and all, and Stiles feels his heart sink.

"Oh," he says.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles looks at Derek. Derek looks at Stiles. Scott's hand is warm on Stiles' back, and Stiles swallows hard, feeling a little like the world has just spun violently on its axis and he's the only one still standing upright.

"Dude, we can leave," Scott says quietly, and Stiles shakes his head.

"I should probably deal with this."

Derek stands still, and rubs the back of his neck. Boyd steps forward, and Derek breaks eye contact with Stiles, looking at the floor instead.

"Need a hand?" Boyd asks, and Stiles shakes his head again.

"No, but thanks," he replies. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, y'know? Don't wait up."

Boyd claps him on the shoulder.

"Give him Hell, then," he says. Stiles blinks.

"Purgatory, at least," Scott affirms. "And hey, we'll all be at mine later if you want to join."

Stiles offers them all a weak smile – which even Jackson returns – and heads over to Derek as they leave.

Derek looks as though he's about to smile but thinks better of it, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder and keeping his eyes on Stiles. Stiles wonders if it's possible to actually die of anxiety. He remembers reading somewhere that no-one's ever died of a panic attack, but there's a first time for everything.

"So, um," he says, eloquently and articulately. "Hey."

"Hi."

Derek is being unsurprisingly non-congenial, Stiles thinks. Still, needs must.

"I guess this saves us the hassle of arranging to meet up," he says. Derek nods.

"I guess."

Stiles pushes his hand through his hair awkwardly, wondering if, should he pray hard enough, the ground might open up and swallow him whole.

"I was wondering - " says Derek, at exactly the same time as Stiles says, "So, should we - "

Stiles gestures for Derek to go first, and Derek swallows, Stiles watching the bob of his Adam's apple in his throat.

"There's a café across the street," Derek says. "If you wanted to talk. I do, by the way. Want to talk."

Stiles considers it. On one hand, he might be about to hear a lot of things he'd rather not hear. On the other hand, it might take him one step closer to sorting out this whole damn mess.

"Lead the way," he says, and Derek does.

* * *

Derek traces the ceramic rim of his mug with one finger and sighs.

"I wanted to explain everything," he says. "I thought I'd have more time to prepare, but actually, this is probably better. I haven't had any time to make up any excuses. Not that I would."

Stiles picks up his cup of coffee and sips it, nearly burning his tongue.

"Go ahead," he says. Derek licks his lips, and Stiles wonders how long this is going to take.

"I screwed up. Big time. I shouldn't have left you like that and I'm sorry. I'm really, genuinely sorry. It wasn't something I've ever done before, wasn't something I planned to do or thought I ever would, and I regret that I did it every day."

Stiles takes another sip of coffee, despite knowing that it'll scald his mouth, because he doesn't know how to react. Derek continues.

"I know I owe you an explanation as to why I did it, but... no, you know what, there aren't any 'but's. I did it because I was scared, and that's not something I like to admit, but it's the truth. I was scared because we'd fallen into the same pattern that I've fallen into before - "

Stiles sees red. It keeps coming back to the same thing.

"Kate," he says, bitterly, and Derek's eyes widen.

"No, actually," he returns. "Not Kate. Just other relationships that I've had in the past that went wrong because I did it all wrong. And I saw myself doing the same things wrong. I didn't want to make the same mistakes, set you up for a fall, and in trying to get myself out of that situation, I made an even bigger mistake." He rubs his forehead. "I'm not good at this."

Stiles decides to give him a break.

"You're doing fine," he says, because he is. He hadn't expected him to say anywhere near as much as he has, and he thinks he's starting to understand. Derek smiles at him gratefully.

"After you sent me that text, before we... you know, I got worried that it was all just going too fast. Not that I thought you meant it, of course, but it showed that you were thinking of me in a way that no-one had thought of me since – what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Stiles blinks.

"You're going to have to speak to me like I'm an idiot, or at least someone who isn't a goddamn mind-reader, because I have no idea which text you're referring to. I sent you a lot, if you recall."

Derek flushes.

"You said you loved me," he says. "And I know you didn't mean it, I'm not an idiot. You were drunk. But after we..."

His voice trails off, and Stiles rolls his eyes. He has no idea which text Derek is talking about, but he'll let him say his piece before he drops that bombshell.

"Had sex," he supplies, and Derek swallows.

"Yes. After that, I started to think – couldn't stop thinking, really; what if you thought I was only doing it because of what you'd said? Or what if – what if you'd said it just so that I'd do that? And I know that's not fair because you're not like that, but I've met people before who _are_ like that, and I had to leave, because - "

"I didn't send that text," Stiles interjects because is enough, really, he doesn't need to hear about all the reasons Derek was convinced he was some kind of asshole, and he watches Derek's face still, furrow into an expression of confusion. "No, but really. I have no idea which text you mean. I've never said that."

Derek, still frowning, picks up Stiles' phone from the table and starts fiddling with it, presumably looking through his messages. Stiles wonders what he expects to find. Phantom texts, presumably. Dream phonecalls. Imaginary voicemails –

"This one."

_I lveo yoouo hahaahah i bet yu knew that thou didndt yo becuae i bet eberuone loves you anad yur cheekbneos butt Derek you area cooler than cucucmber and hoettre than my dads secretery and seh had a a boobj ob lasts years so that s hsaying somethng! im drunk ok bryyeee!_  
**[Received 1 week ago 01:04]**

Stiles blinks.

"Oh."

Derek eyes him suspiciously – the first thing Stiles had noticed about him was his eyes, he thinks - and Stiles shrugs. He doesn't have any memory of that night in particular, but he's pretty sure he'd remember sending that. He's also fairly certain that he'd have seen that scorching example of embarrassment and shame in his outbox, and would have had a mental breakdown accordingly. He winces.

"Dude. I honestly don't - " And then it hits him, like a punch to the gut, and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes. "Erica."

Derek blinks.

"Who?"

And Stiles could kick himself for not realising it earlier. Laura had got involved. It made complete sense that Stiles' own friends would do the same. He knows they have his best interests at heart, knows that they have only good intentions, but he feels a surge of hot anger at the realisation that other people have been making mistakes that aren't theirs to make. Stiles' face must show exactly how he's feeling because Derek looks at him, a little concerned, and leans forward, actually touches his hand.

"Stiles?"

Stiles rubs the bridge of his nose. Derek's hand remains, warm on his own, and Stiles wonders if this is what he's been missing out on because other people can't keep their fucking noses out of his business.

"We've been doing this all wrong."

Derek looks at him blankly.

"I figured that," he says. Stiles waves his hand in a flippant gesture – whatever Derek thinks he means, it's likely wrong.

"This thing," he continues. "Whatever it is – it's our thing, right? I mean, it's between us."

Cautiously, Derek nods, and Stiles takes this as permission to continue. "So riddle me this; why does it seem to me as though everyone has had a say in it apart from us?"

Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles sighs. Why must he always spell everything out for everyone? "Think about it. Your sister phoned me every other minute, telling me what I should do and how you felt about things. Erica took it upon herself to go through my phone history. And it's great that we both have people who care enough to do that, but it sucks pretty hard that neither of us felt as though we could just tell them to, you know, not."

Derek is frowning again, and he rubs his thumb over the soft bit of skin between Stiles' thumb and forefinger absent-mindedly. Stiles thinks it's a little odd that he's so comfortable making physical contact when they haven't actually seen each other in a while, but he also thinks it's a little awesome, and he's fully aware that he hasn't made any effort to tell Derek not to do it, so he lets it slide.

"What did my sister say, exactly?" Derek asks. Stiles shrugs.

"The usual," he answers. "That you had a history of bad break-ups. That I should try and win you over. That you really liked me. Loads of confusing stuff that didn't make sense at the time and just made me think that everything might be my fault."

"It wasn't."

"Well, obviously." Stiles sighs, and at the guilty look on Derek's face, he turns his hand over, palm upwards, and takes Derek's hand in his, which makes the other man's eyes widen in something like surprise. He doesn't move his hand, though, and Stiles continues. "Look. We probably started this the worst way possible. I mean, seriously. We could write a book on how badly we did this. Luckily for you, I am a certified genius – well, almost, but that test was bullshit because even Lydia failed it and she's – OK, yes, anyway, I have an idea."

Derek looks like he's trying hard not to laugh.

"I'm listening."

Stiles spreads his unoccupied hand in a gesture of benevolent wisdom.

"We start over."

He knows it's naive, foolish and possibly latently sadistic. He knows that. He's fully aware that Lydia would arch an eyebrow and tell Derek that he'd missed his chance, and that Erica would knee Derek in the groin before texting all of their friends about his lack of sexual prowess – although, Stiles thinks, that would be a total lie – and he knows that Scott would dither about it until Derek left and nothing would ever get resolved. But here's the kicker; he's not them. He's Stiles Stilinski, and this is his decision, and he's going to make it without thinking of anyone else, because right now? He deserves it.

"You'd do that?" Derek asks. "But I was - "

"A douche? An ass?" Stiles butts in, and Derek grimaces but nods. "Yeah. You kind of were. But I'll take the risk that you won't do it again. And if you do, I'll kick your butt. You didn't see me back there, man, I was lifting weights like a pro."

"I just don't want you to feel like you have to."

Stiles snorts.

"Dude. Please. I am so done with doing things because I feel like I should. No, this one's on me. It's my mistake entirely." He pauses. "And yours, obviously, if you say yes, because I can be really irritating sometimes, too."

"I hadn't noticed," Derek says drily, and Stiles beams.

"And that's why I'm doing this. Because we're kind of good together. And I know this is turning into Honesty Hour, but whatever. I want this." Their hands are still laced together, and Stiles looks at them pointedly. "And I know you do, too."

Derek tilts his head, contemplative.

"And you're sure you're not doing this because - "

Stiles groans.

"Oh, for the love of - " And with that, despite being fully aware that he's acting a little like a nu-age rom-com heroine, he stands up, his chair falling backwards with the force of it, leans forward and grabs Derek by the shoulders – knocking his cup of coffee onto the floor in the process - and kisses him.

Derek doesn't say anything else for a while, and Stiles doesn't even mind when the cafeteria lady comes over with a face like thunder and makes him pay for the china.

* * *

"I'm setting a list of rules," Stiles states. Derek pauses, his car still locked.

"Go on," he says.

"Firstly, we take things slow this time. No jumping into bed just because we're both horny. We're grown men, damnit. We're above that." Derek raises an eyebrow. "Well, I am, anyway."

"That's fair enough." Derek unlocks the car but doesn't make any move to open the door, waiting for Stiles to finish listing his rules. "What are the others?"

"You tell me about Kate as soon as – and only when – you feel ready," Stiles responds. "Because I'm done with living in her shadow, and I don't plan on making a big deal of it if you don't."

"I'll try not to."

Stiles nods. He's willing to trust that Derek's learnt that Kate is in the past, not the present. If his blind faith comes back to bite him in the ass later, well, that's up to him to deal with, but for now, he'll take it.

"I guess I can live with that. The last rule is that you come to Scott's house tonight."

Derek blinks.

"Is that a coded message that I have to decipher in order to win your heart and soul or something?" he asks. "Because I don't know what you just said."

"Cute," Stiles says. "And no. My best friend is having a Hangover party this evening. For clarification, we don't get drunk and vomit together. We simply bask in the glory of Bradley Cooper and Co., and you're going to come and bear the brunt of their well-deserved vitriol – you did break my heart a little, after all – after which I will defend your honour, thank them for caring and tell them to let me lead my own life." He pauses. "That's kind of your karmic retribution."

Which is half true, because although he figures that Derek probably deserves a little bit of a hard time, he mostly just wants to skip to the part where he gets to tell them all thanks but no thanks.

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Text me with the details and I'll be there," he says, and Stiles grins because he hadn't honestly expected it to be that easy. Suddenly, Derek reaches into his pocket and pulls out Stiles' phone. Stiles had honestly forgotten that he still had it. "We should switch back."

Suddenly, Stiles has a brilliant idea.

"We'll swap them at Scott's," he says. Derek rolls his eyes again.

"Fine," he says, and he opens the car door. "See you later."

"Yes, you will," Stiles promises.

* * *

31 Parkfield Way, 6pm. Be there or be square.  
**[Sent 15:31]**

No-one's called anyone a 'square' since about 1967, Stiles. I'll be there.  
**[Received 15:34]**

Sometimes, we must forsake social norms in order to make sweet rhymes. And don't text while you're driving.  
**[Sent 15:39]**

No, sir. See you at 6.  
**[Received 16:04]**


End file.
